


To Those Without Pity

by PointlessNostalgic



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 56,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PointlessNostalgic/pseuds/PointlessNostalgic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night of Don Juan Triumphant, a fatal twist of events leaves Christine the prisoner of the Phantom of the Opera once again.  Without the Viscount de Chagny to fight to save her, she must learn to accept a new life with Erik by her side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fleetest End

**"We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked up at each other for the last time." -Jack Kerouac**

I thought I would die that night.

I would tell you how it all started, but I don't believe I could pinpoint a definitive moment. All I know is that my youth passed in a dream, and somewhere between deception and bliss, I surrendered my mind to an angel. I could tell you about my dalliance, as Erik would call it, with Raoul; yet in truth I cannot, for I've resolved not to think about such things, lest they break my heart. I could tell you about my father's death, but even that seems remote and somehow unimportant, God rest his soul. I could recount my relationships with Meg and Madame Giry and the countless others, but they had no bearing on how that night transpired.

Erik was the catalyst.

I could no longer keep track of the bewildering web of deception and deceit that had plagued our lives over the past months, but I could see how it was escalating. Erik was no longer my angel, and I had begun telling lie after lie in order to keep my relationship with Raoul a secret. As I look back, I have no doubt that he knew everything that was occurring. Nevertheless, he allowed me to delude myself, letting me believe that I somehow had the upper hand. As if I could truly outsmart him.

I digress. The real heart of the night was Erik's masterpiece, Don Juan Triumphant. I had spent what felt like an eternity working on the inhumanly difficult score, all the while plotting my mentor's demise. With every meeting I had with Erik, even on the night of the performance, I feared he would confront me. I feared for my life, yet he never said a word.

I was in a trance as I prepared for opening night, and my mind was filled with what the evening would hold. I remember thinking that a mere twelve hours from then, my teacher would be nothing but a memory, and I would be travelling as far from Paris as I could with my fiancée. I wanted the thought to comfort me, but it just terrified me more. And not for fear of failure.

My reverie did not cease as I went on stage, and I seemed to watch myself from afar as I went through the motions of the scene. I did not feel the knob of the onstage door as I turned it, and I could not feel the stage beneath my feet as I walked. That is, until I heard his voice resounding across the stage. I thought at first that I was imagining it, and that the fog that enveloped me was playing tricks on my ears. But when I saw his figure, I knew that it was indeed Erik. Nobody else in the world moved like him; nobody's hands held so much fluidity.

Suddenly, everything sharpened. I became hypersensitive as I felt his hand touch my neck, and I could feel not only my heartbeat, but his too. We sang, and yet as I looked in his eyes, I could hear his very thoughts. I know the truth, he seemed to say. I know what you've done. I know what you're planning. Yet his signature temper wasn't evident in those eyes. I could feel the curiosity that laced my own features as I examined him, trying to read into the future and understand a man who could never be understood. Whether it was a flicker in his eye or an imperceptible squeeze of his hand, I remember the precise moment when I knew he was planning something out of my control. Regret plagues me as I think of those moments, and I can't fathom what motivated me to do what I did.

Panic was not what motivated my decision to strip him of his mask for all to see; it was a moment of stoic resolution. Little did I know that this action would seal my fate and the fates of those I loved so irrevocably. Almost immediately, the stage went black and I was falling. My first instinct was to cling to Erik, but he was already holding me securely. We fell into something soft, but it didn't stop my knees from buckling painfully, nor did it stop my body from lurching forward as I collapsed to my hands and knees. It was still dark, but he somehow pulled me up roughly and began to drag me through a passageway I could not see.

I did not plead as we trekked through the dank earth, nor did he speak. There was no reprimanding or condemning of my actions, though I could feel the sense of betrayal in his fingers as he clutched my arm. The only words I heard from him echoed against the stone walls as I tripped on the hem of my dress and fell forward, tearing open the palm of my hands on the rocky ground. I gave out a small cry of pain, but all I heard were his livid mutters as he called me a silly girl before he yanked me back into a standing position.

Light finally came when we reached the familiar shore of the underground lake. I did not need coercing to get into the boat, and he followed me silently and began to push us slowly across the still water. As I sat in that boat, my mind began to travel back to the opera—to the audience, and to Raoul, and to all of those policemen who were waiting to capture the elusive Opera Ghost. And then my mind wandered to what exactly was going to happen when we reached Erik's home. Surely he could not be planning to stay long for fear that they would find him. Unless we weren't meant to leave his home alive.

Thoughts raced as I recalled the people he had killed and the lives he had jeopardized since I knew him. His fury blinded him, and alarm coursed through my body as I speculated what he had in store. My pleas would fall on deaf ears if his wrath was heightened enough—after all, how could I forget the day I had torn his mask away in the privacy of his home. How would he punish me for what I had just subjected him to?

"Should I drown myself?" I said suddenly before I knew what I was doing. I was surprised at the steadiness of my own voice, but I did everything I could not to show it.

"Why would you say something like that?" he asked simply, inquisitiveness evident in his tone.

"What are you planning on doing to me?" My voice faltered momentarily, but I swallowed and tried to ignore my apprehension. I was not ready to face death, and he knew it.

"I haven't a clue what you mean," he said, his characteristic cynicism seeping into his demeanor.

"Erik, please," I begged suddenly, turning abruptly to look back at him. I had forgotten that he no longer had his mask on, and I tried to quell my revulsion. If he was going to respond, he chose not to when he read the disgust that I was trying to conceal.

"Think of the consequences of a rash decision," I beseeched him, but the resentment that flashed in his eyes made it clear that these were not the right words.

"The consequences! I don't think you have the right to tell me of consequences."

We had reached the shore, and he dropped the pole into water as he pulled me out of the boat. I craned my neck to watch the pole sink into the lake and my stomach lurched painfully. He was not planning on crossing the lake ever again…

"Erik, I'm sorry," I murmured as I felt tears prick my eyes.

He did not seem to hear, though, as he pulled me by my wrist into his home. He was bent on some unknown goal, and waves of terror rushed over me as I wracked my brain for what it might be. An unrestrained sob escaped my lips when he slammed the front door behind us, and yet he still wouldn't look back at me.

"Please look at me! Please listen—…" I began, and he finally let go of me and spun around, venom written in every inch of his face.

"You have no right to make demands of me! You, who have lied to me and betrayed me! I owe you no cordialities and no niceties. I will treat you like the false little girl you are!" he roared, his body looming over my own as I struggled not to collapse in fear.

"You tricked me all of my childhood, Erik. You cannot accuse me of deceit when you—…" I stuttered, forcing my eyes to meet is, no matter how fiercely they flashed.

"I can accuse you of whatever I want," he countered in a declaration of indifference, squaring his shoulders as he looked down at me, menacing as ever. "After all, it appears I have the upper hand here. As always."

"What are you going to do to me?" I repeated, my breath caught high in my throat as I stared wide-eyed at him.

For a moment, I thought I saw his eyes soften. "I would never hurt you, my dear," he began, and I felt the breath drain out of me in some semblance of relief. That was, until his eyes focused behind me on the door, the muscles under his eyes tightening in vehemence. "Your young man, on the other hand…"

My eyebrows furrowed in confusion until a few seconds later when I heard the doorknob turn forcibly. My heart jumped in sorrow and I turned just in time to see Raoul throw the door open. He was drenched in water—I can only imagine that he swam across the lake—and his face had distressed fortitude written on it.

"Christine, thank God," he breathed through his gasps for air.

"Raoul!" I cried out, and without thinking I began to run towards him until I saw his eyes move to the figure behind me in utter dread. I turned and felt my heart stop as I saw Erik with his arm extended, a gun poised in his hand.

My first thoughts upon seeing this still puzzle me. I couldn't help but think that this was not Erik's way—that he would never deliver death with such a crude weapon. But as soon as the thought crossed my mind, I realized the gravity of what was before me. Death was going to be delivered, and what difference did the weapon really make? And who was I to say that I knew Erik? I knew what he wanted me to know, and who was I to call that the truth?

Before I could think more about it, I felt Raoul's body move roughly in front of mine. I tried to protest, but he stood firmly and kept his eyes unblinkingly on the barrel a few feet away.

"So the lovers shall die together?" Erik mused, and my eyes moved to Raoul as tears began rolling unnoticed down my cheeks.

I studied him in those moments, memorizing his features. He began to speak to Erik fiercely, but my ears did not receive the words. It struck me in that moment just how selfless this man in front of me was, and how much I loved him. It was a different love than I felt for Erik, for I did love Erik too, but something in Raoul's heroism hit me. This was a man who could not die tonight—he was such an innately good person, and God knew the world needed another good person. And yet if I did nothing, Erik would kill him. I could see it in his gruesome face as he spat insults back at Raoul.

Without knowing what I was doing, I felt my feet begin to move my body in the gun's way. Both the men stopped talking, and Raoul grabbed my arm to stop me. I wrenched it out of his grasp, though, and met Erik's eyes with as much braveness as I could muster.

"Put the gun away. I will stay." It was a murmur of complacency. I ignored Raoul's sound of protest, and searched in Erik's eyes for some acquiescence. They remained as hard as ever, though, and my uneasiness mounted.

"You selfish girl. You think your infidelity can be so easily erased? No, it is too late for apologies and promises." He cocked the gun, and my mouth went dry as I felt movement behind me. "Come closer and I'll shoot." Raoul stopped dead, but I wouldn't look back.

As I maintained eye contact with Erik, I tried to remind myself over and over that he wouldn't harm me. He loved me, and I knew that. It would kill him if I died. Nevertheless, a nagging voice in the back of mind pointed out that death might not be such a punishment for him now, but I pushed the thought aside.

I closed the gap between Erik and me, wincing as I got nearer and nearer to the barrel before finally moving past it. "I will stay with you forever. Please." The serenity in my voice shocked me, for my heart was beating at an absurd speed. Raoul made a sound behind me, but I couldn't bear to react to it. And so, with a sense of finality, I lifted a hand to his marred cheek and let my lips gently touch his.

Time stopped in that moment. Pleasure and regret encompassed me wholly, and there was no escaping the cold and thrilling reality that stood before me. But then again, perhaps I say that now with full knowledge of what happened next.

When I heard the shot, I thought that I was dead. My whole body stopped for longer than should be possible, and my mind went blank. It wasn't until I heard the body drop behind me that I opened my eyes, only to see Erik's eyes, already so close, trained on me. There was no apology in that gaze, but rather a sense of dull finality. I truly didn't believe it was true until I turned around and saw Raoul's body lying on the ground, blood seeping from the bullet wound directly over his heart. In an instant, the most inhuman cry came out of my mouth as my body collapsed to the ground in utter grief.

I felt his hand grab my arm as I tried to crawl towards the body, but I yanked it away with strength that I did not know I had. I could feel Erik watching me as I tentatively touched Raoul's face and searched his eyes for life that no longer existed. I felt Eternity in those moments as I gaped dumbly into death's face, not knowing how time could ever go on.

"Get up, Christine," Erik's voice echoed with invulnerable solemnity behind me, but I did not move from Raoul's side. I could not possibly abandon this former being that I loved with all my senses.

"Come. It's time to keep your promise." When he dragged me to my feet, the words I had uttered came back to my mind. I will stay. I will stay with you forever.

I wish I had died that night.


	2. Life in the Afterglow

**"…for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world." -Albert Camus**

I have no doubt that Erik knew of my presence in Paris on the night of the performance. In the most inexplicable way, he always seemed to know where I was in the world, no matter how covert I tried to be. We had a mystifying relationship that was rooted deep in our past. Some called me nothing but a kind-hearted foreigner, but then again, they knew nothing of the debt that bound me to Erik. But that story is for another day. All that matters is that our tales were linked, for good or bad, and wherever he went, I knew I was soon to follow.

I hadn't lived on the Rue de Rivoli for long before I was contacted by the Viscount de Chagny. How absurd to think that it was just a week ago when he knocked fervently on my door, demanding to speak to me. He told me stories of the madman who held the Opera House on puppet strings, dictating the tragedy that was unfolding as we spoke. He cried of his dear fiancée, who had become all but entranced by this crazed man. He insisted that he was like to lose her should he not be captured.

Of course I thought of Erik when I heard these words. In my mind, everything seemed to be connected to him. It wasn't until the Viscount began recounting the rumors about the man's visage when I knew without a doubt who was behind the scandal. And yet I couldn't help but think that it was a bit childish for the great illusionist of Mazenderan to be stealing away young girls for the sake of stirring up controversy.

I threw caution to the wind over the next week as I snuck throughout the Opera House, interviewing anyone who would see me in order to gain as much information as I could about Erik's new persona. Before the first day was up, I heard people calling me "the Persian," a nickname that I knew Erik would not fail to recognize. Nevertheless, several things became blaringly evident. The first was that this girl was his sole focus. Whether that meant that he was in love with her or simply desired her, I couldn't have said. The second was that we were past culmination—we were at the tipping point of a potentially disastrous event, and I had no idea how to stabilize things.

In tandem with the Préfecture de Police , the young couple and I began to plan my old companion's downfall. I will never forget the determination in the Viscount's eyes, or the dazed expression that overtook Miss Daaé's face. It was as if she was afflicted by a morphine induced fog, interacting mechanically without full knowledge of what words came out of her mouth. I knew that expression far too well—thoughts of Erik held her mind. Even as the Viscount grasped her hand with a reassuring squeeze, her fingers remained quite limp as if she could not feel them.

And oh, I will never fail to remember the words she murmured as they left the precinct, their fate sealed—the words that everyone else forgot to hear: "He will kill us all."

I was in the box with Raoul on the night of the performance. I have never seen a man so alert, even as he watched the house fill up with opera goers. I had to convince him to sit down as the conductor began the overture, but all the same, he looked ready to leap up at any moment. When Christine first walked through that door, he automatically jumped from his seat and put his hands on the banister before him.

I moved to sit him back down, but stopped suddenly as I heard his voice. Erik's melodious and ever-entrancing voice. It was unmistakable, and yet the Viscount did not seem to realize at first. I watched carefully as comprehension flooded his eyes and his spoke hoarsely to me.

"That is not Piangi."

I did not know what to say. There was nothing we could do from our location. We had not anticipated this. How could we guess that Erik would risk revealing himself in front of hundreds of Parisians? As Erik began to touch her neck, Raoul's hold on the rail tightened. I could see the thought-process reeling through his head—if he left the box, she could be gone by the time he reached the ground floor. His mouth was open, his eyes glued on his fiancée, as if she could somehow disappear from the stage.

And then she did. We barely saw her remove his mask before screams erupted and the stage was plunged into darkness for a brief moment before the lights flickered back on. Raoul was already out the box door when he saw that the stage was bare, no sign of his fiancée anywhere. Before I had a chance to follow, a sea of audience members blocked my way. I struggled against the exodus, hoping to catch him before he made a fatal mistake. Little did I know how vital those precious seconds of delay truly were.

When I finally found my way to the backstage area of the opera house, I began to open every door, desperate to find anyone who could help. For several minutes, all I came across were fleeing ballerinas, clutching their Pointe shoes to their chests as they ran barefoot across the cement.

At the end of a hallway I came across an old door ajar and I heard scrambling inside. Without thought I threw it open and was taken aback to find an old woman rifling through her desk at perilous speeds. She didn't notice me at first, but there was no time for politeness.

"Christine Daaé. Raoul de Chagny. Have you seen them?" I panted, barely able to get the words out over my pounding heart.

She looked up sharply and I recognized her suddenly—the ballet mistress. In my interviews people always seemed to point to her for information, and yet she had remained obligingly quiet over the past week. But now she stood before me with her eyes wide with fright and her mouth firmly shut, as if to tell me that no words would come out of her mouth.

"Raoul was just here!" My breath caught as I heard another voice coming from the corner of the room. There stood her daughter, leotard and tutu still on, with inquisitiveness and terror mixing in her features.

"Meg, you mustn't speak of what you don't know!" the older woman hissed in French so quick that I nearly missed it. "He will have no mercy on rats."

My heart jumped at this—she knew! She knew who Erik was, and she must have pointed Raoul in his direction. "I know him—Erik. I must help the Viscount, please!"

Her thin lipped expression did not waver, though, and she merely went back to tearing apart her desk. "I haven't a clue what you're talking about. Please, Monsieur, I will only ask you once to leave."

"He will kill the Viscount! And perhaps the girl, for that matter. Please, you cannot leave their lives up to fate." I tried to speak calmly, hoping that my serenity would somehow make her see reason. There was silence, but I kept my eyes trained on the woman.

"He's gone through Christine's dressing room at the other end of the hall. There is a mechanism on the mirr—!" Meg burst out at breakneck speed as she wrung her hands with worry. Before she could finish, her mother had flung herself towards her daughter and clasped a hand over her mouth, her stalwart demeanor having transformed into pure sorrow.

As I ran out of the room, I heard her mother begin to sob and grieve over what was to become of them. I didn't think twice about it, though, for if I had my way, Erik would never have the chance to terrorize the two of them.

I could see the room down the hall as I ran, and while I hoped that Raoul had not ventured through the mirror, I wasn't surprised to see it unhinged as I threw open the door. Without thinking twice, I grabbed the candle sitting on the dressing table and slipped through the mirror mechanism.

I couldn't describe the labyrinth if I tried. I was only thankful that I knew some of Erik's tricks—I had known him so well, after all, when he first learned them. This was precisely why when I reached the lake, I knew there was another path. I can't help but wonder whether my choice to forgo the lake and find an alternate route was ultimately Raoul's death warrant. But that's the trouble with hindsight—it becomes so easy to speculate and delve into the smallest details, wondering if those were the breaking points.

I ran my fingers along the walls for what felt like hours, searching for some unknown mechanism that would take me to his home. By the time I found one on a nondescript wall of an unremarkable passageway, I knew I was too late. Nevertheless, I followed the winding hall it provided and tentatively opened the door at its end.

His home was unbearably beautiful. And yet there was something tragic in it—as if it were lost in time and abruptly forgotten. I did not linger, though, for I knew the danger of lurking through his house, particularly if he was still present. He would not show mercy to an intruder. With as much stealth as I could conjure, I began through the house, listening for any sign of movement or life. I was beginning to realize that the house was empty just as I rounded the corner to the foyer and saw the body on the ground.

The Viscount de Chagny did not look peaceful in death. He was covered in dried blood, and his eyes were wide in shock. My focus travelled to his arms, where smeared blood plastered the sleeves of his shirt—the sign that someone else had been here to witness the young man's death, and had made a mark on the body. And nothing else. No dropped jewelry, no abandoned weapon, no trail or further sign of life.

And yet I knew who was behind this, and I knew who was with him.

* * *

_"Christine Daaé! As I live and breathe! I didn't think it could possibly be you, and yet here you are."_

_She recognized the voice like it was her own, and she couldn't help the smile that blossomed on her lips. Attempting to restrain it in modesty, she turned around to see the familiar, and yet matured face of her childhood friend._

_"Monsieur!" was all she could muster, an involuntary laugh of surprise leaving her lips._

_"Philippe didn't believe me, insisting that you couldn't conceivably be up there on that stage, singing as you did. But I knew! You must say that I may bring you out to dinner tonight. I must hear all about how you've found yourself here and your rise to success!" He was bubbling with delight and his smile was no less than infectious. Nevertheless, when she heard these last words her smile fell immediately._

_"I could not do that, I'm afraid." The words came out slowly, and she dropped her eyes, unable to meet his gaze._

_"You have a prior engagement?" he asked after a moment, his wounded pride thinly veiled by his smile._

_"I'm afraid so."_

_"With Erik?" he asked simply, and her head shot up immediately._

_"How do you know him?" she demanded, her heartbeat mounting as she stared open-mouthed at him._

_"Isn't it natural to know the name of your murderer? Christine."_

"Christine."

Her eyes flew open with a gasp and she looked around, searching for any sign of Raoul. When she was met with the yellow eyes of Erik, she drew back slightly and searched for some defense. When all she found were sheets, she merely hardened her jaw and looked at him straight on. His eyes did not change, though, and he turned away from her.

"We must go."

For the first time she took in her surroundings. It was a small room, and her bed seemed to be the only resting place present, save for a wooden chair in the corner. It was mostly bare of decorations and belongings, though she could see Erik closing a small valise next to his violin case.

"Where are we?" she asked slowly, noting that she was still wearing her Aminta costume from the night before. Nevertheless, she watched him carefully as he turned around and looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"You don't remember. I suppose you wouldn't, seeing as you fainted halfway here. We're at an inn. They said they were full, but the lady of the house was lovely enough to take in my sick wife." His lips curled into a smile which sent shivers down Christine's spine.

"She took me for a prostitute!" she exclaimed as she slipped out of her bed, revealing her costume once again. It was immeasurably unsuitable for any lady, after all—her ankles showing, her breasts not covered to the extent they should, her shoulders peeking out through the lace.

But he laughed at this—a malicious laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "I suppose she did."

"Where are we going?" she asked quickly, rounding the bed to approach him with as much bravery as she could find.

"Far away. You have a promise to keep to me, after all." His words were cool, and he did not move from his spot as he spoke.

"What ?" she murmured almost inaudibly, her breath catching in her throat.

"'I will stay with you forever.' I believe those were the words." He took a step closer and she instinctively shrunk back.

"But that wasn't the bargain! You k—…" The word wouldn't come out, and tears threatened to spill out of her eyes.

"I what?" he asked, staring down at her with hardened eyes, his figure looming over her. "I killed him. I believe that's what you're trying to say."

"How can you be so cruel?" she cried out, taking another step back. "You said you'd never hurt me, and yet you've done this monstrous—"

"Cruel? Monstrous?" he challenged as his voice rose, his expression not softening with her words. "Love is cruel. And betrayal is monstrous. I believe I can make you the villain here just as easily."

This was not the Angel she had known—and yet, he hadn't been an angel for some time now. But only once had he ever been malicious, and she knew the cause deserved it. The unmasking on that dreadful night when she first learned how far from an angel he truly was seemed years and years past. And after that explosion of rage, he had never laid a finger on her again, nor had he spoken spitefully towards her. But things had changed since last night.

"Do stop staring at me like that—you look like a dim-witted child." She could see another insult on the tip of his tongue, but he somehow restrained it. "You must change before we leave—I can't having you traipsing around in such clothing. I've laid a dress out over the chair for you to wear," he said stiffly, his eyes narrowly focused on her.

"Where did you get it from?" she managed, trying to maintain her eye contact with him for fear of appearing cowardly.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

Christine swallowed at that, and looked over at the chair. She hadn't noticed the garment there before, but as she saw it, she moved over and picked it up gingerly. Turning to look at him timidly, she swallowed hard. "Will you step out for a moment?"

Erik stared at her with an expression that she could not read, remaining eerily silent, and her heart began to pound as she realized that he was not leaving. Just as she saw a fleeting spark of sadness in his eyes, though, he spoke.

"I am not a complete degenerate," he murmured, turning on his heel as he started for the door. He opened it swiftly, halfway out before he turned back to look at her.

"And my apologies that it is not white," he said sharply, the hard edge returning to his voice as if it had never left.

"Why should it be white?" Christine questioned tentatively as her fingers gripped the fabric tightly, holding it against her chest almost protectively.

"Why, for our wedding of course."


	3. Justifying the Means

**"Tease not our ghosts with slander, pause not there to say that love is false and soon grows cold, but pass in silence the mute grave of two who lived and died believing love was true." -Edna St. Vincent Millay**

I went to the police before long, and I led them down to Erik's underground kingdom. They brought far too many men, and I felt vague heavy feeling that accompanies regret and pity crept over me, and I nearly forgot that Erik had killed once again. What would he think he if saw disgust as they picked through Erik's belongings throughout the house without a shred of courtesy. I tried not to watch as one young officer pocketed a pair of cuff links that were stashed in a drawer, or as another knocked over one of his many precious instruments. Gradually, the these bumbling men handling his prized belongings? I suppose it didn't matter much anymore.

They spoke to me, of course—asking me this and that about him. I had decided the moment I saw Raoul's body that I wouldn't reveal my past with Erik. I knew they wouldn't understand, for what could Parisians understand about the ways of Persia? They would hear my words, but they would not listen or even attempt to understand. This so-called sophisticated society was afflicted with blinders, and they could not see past their uneducated biases.

And so I told them nothing about the torture chambers. I kept the Shah and the Khanum a secret, and I didn't say a word about his disfigurement or his time with the gypsies. Nevertheless, they had gathered enough information from the managers to learn of the murder of Joseph Buquet and the chandelier, which led them to infer on their own that he was a severely insane killer. His appearance had been greatly skewed, for they did nothing but interview the ballet rats who told stories about him. But even as they recounted the stories that claimed he looked like a glorified skeleton, I knew they were not far off.

As for Christine…

They hadn't come to a conclusion, even as the morning light hit the Opera House. Some were convinced that she had been kidnapped once again, just as she had been those many months ago. Knowing of her secret engagement to Raoul and that she had helped in planning her instructor's ruin, they couldn't understand how she would willingly leave with this gaunt specter. They insisted on putting out a search for the girl, hoping that someone would recognize her and reveal their whereabouts.

And then there were others who decided that she had chosen to leave with her teacher. They said that her engagement and her willingness to help the officers capture Erik were all a ruse, and that they had been planning to leave all along. They had no interest in "saving" the young ingénue from The Phantom of the Opera, but rather to question her and perhaps convict her. Whether the murder of Raoul de Chagny was intentional or not, they were not sure. But as they said, "Meurtre est meurtre"—murder is murder.

When Philippe de Chagny arrived, he did not help the situation. Before he had seen the body, he had already called the poor girl a harlot and a tramp, while labeling Erik a depraved fiend for the murder of his brother. He crafted an elaborate story of his own creation when he approached the body, insisting that the young Mademoiselle had always had a criminal look in her eye. He imagined her standing there, perhaps with the gun in hand herself, mocking his brother before delivering the death blow. I was thankful when one of the more wizened policemen—Monsieur Prideux—barked that conjecture had no place in the investigation.

I knew things were not as simple as they seemed, because I knew Erik. Things were never straightforward with Erik, and it was impossible to understand his motives or his emotions, particularly when it came to the one person who had any control over him. It had become painfully evident that his Christine was his world, and these police did not understand. The first time they asked if Erik had raped her, I was left speechless. No, these men could not understand.

And yet I could not go out on my own to exact justice, or even find them by myself. I would have to humor these officers and find a way to remain a part of the investigation. After all, how could they deny me? They were fooling themselves if they thought that anyone knew Erik better than I.

* * *

 

The streets were bustling as they exited the inn and stepped into a carriage that was sitting idly at the curb. Christine eyed the passersby with uncertain eyes, but they didn't see her. They didn't even see Erik, despite his menacing demeanor and mask. She knew that he preferred the dark and the solitude, but there was something to be said about hiding in a crowd, for no one paid attention as he grabbed her arm and directed into the carriage before moving to the street side and climbing in himself. It was as if they were invisible—or as if nobody cared. Even the driver failed to glance back at either of them as they entered. She thought idly of how Erik could afford his silence, but such a thought was asinine, for she had long known that he was unaccountably wealthy.

But even if someone cared, what could she do? Run to them and beg them to keep her safe? She knew far too well that Erik's hold was stronger than iron, and that there was no escaping his eyes. Since the day Christine had met him, she had underestimated his power and ultimate control. But now, after all that had happened, she knew better and more fully comprehended the futility of escape.

Without a word, the carriage began to move, and Christine's eyes shifted from the driver to Erik nervously. His eyes betrayed nothing, though, nor had he said a word since he left the room. Her mind had not stopped running since she awoke; she was filled to the brim with thoughts of Raoul and of Erik, of the Opera House and of her future, and the future that her former fiancée would never experience. She could feel her throat tightening and she quickly blocked the thought out of her mind, painfully aware how little her tears would help her now. She had heard the spiteful words Erik had thrown at her when she protested about Raoul, and she was not prepared for another onslaught of affronts, no matter what level of grief she was experiencing.

"Where are we going?" she asked slowly with chastened hope, watching as he grimly turned his head towards her. His words from that morning hung heavily on her shoulders—Why, for our wedding of course. He had not mentioned any date or time for the event, and part of her wondered if they were going to a church at that very moment. If Erik would enter a church, that is. For a moment, her mind spun at the thought of marrying under some other institution than God, but on further reflection, this seemed useless to worry about now. Despite her racing mind, though, she tried not to betray her nerves as he studied her for a few moments before speaking.

"I think it best if I don't say."

Christine swallowed, wracking her mind for something to say in response, but he turned away once again. "I see you've brought your violin." It seemed like such a ridiculous thing to say—how could anyone care for a violin when death and murder hung over their heads?

"How else would you practice? I couldn't easily bring a piano along, and so a violin must suffice until we can find better accommodations." He spoke as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but she barely heard a word after he had finished his first sentence.

"Practice?" she choked, unable to bear the time he took to turn back to her.

"Of course," he snapped, his jaw setting in defiance as he watched her. She saw him take in her distressed expression, though, and his features softened somewhat. In what felt like an eternity, he reached out and took her hand gently, apprehension clouding his own demeanor. "My dearest Christine… I only want what we once had. I want our life to be just as it was. Which means that we must practice, and continue to improve your voice. We will make music together, just like we once did."

For a moment, she forgot about the events of the night before and her breath hitched as she marveled at his compassion. Gentle words were not something she was accustomed to, after all. She had learned to accept his cold demeanor as his kindness, for Erik could not be read like other men, or other people for that matter. But as he spoke of their future and their idealized past, she couldn't fathom how he could possibly be the same man that had just verbally abused her, or the same man who committed great acts of violence without batting an eye. It was only a moment, though, before she remembered.

"Things cannot be the same, Erik," she murmured, swallowing as she saw his eyes harden immediately. "You know they cannot."

"Because of the boy," he snarled, pulling his hand away with venom. Perhaps if she hadn't known him for so long, she would be taken aback by his rapid changes in temper, but now it was second nature to adjust to his mood. "At least we're on even playing ground, now." He seemed pleased with the remark, and her eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"What do you mean?" she demanded, clenching her fists in her lap as she spoke.

"It won't be long before he looks quite like me. The grave does that to a man."

His sneer left her dumbstruck for several moments, and unrestrained tears filled her eyes one again as she felt the dull pang of solemn emptiness. As usual, he did not miss her expression, and he tensed in discomfort, forcing himself to look away.

"Oh, please don't begin crying again." He said it with uncaring malevolence, but she knew that he couldn't bear to see her tears.

"How can you say such a thing? I loved him, Erik! What would you do if someone killed me? How would you react?" She struggled to wipe away her tears, but they kept coming, even as she looked desperately towards the driver who did not seem to hear.

"Do not suggest that your love for him is even an echo of my love for you. I love with you with such transcendence, Christine, and he was… He was merely a vile boy!"

She felt some satisfaction as he, too, fought for words and faltered, and her pain began to morph into anger. "He was a great man," she protested, watching him with a defiant gaze.

"You don't know of his despicable thoughts about you!" he growled. It was painfully clear how hard he was trying to control himself as his fury boiled beneath the surface. "You do not know what he said about you to his foolish friends, or how his brother spoke of you! He had no respect for you!"

"Raoul loved me," Christine objected, though a sick feeling began to emerge at the pit of her stomach as she saw a frantic spark in his eyes.

"Perhaps in your presence." His voice was somewhat calmer now, but she could see how overwrought he was with resentment. "To the rest of the world, he behaved as if you were some kind of loose woman."

"He would never say that!" Her mind corrected herself—he would never have said that—but she did not voice this amendment. It was a fact that she could barely wrap her thoughts around, and a fact that Erik had no pity for.

"But when others suggested it, he did not deny it. That is as heinous a crime as saying it outright."

The words had a sense of desperation in them that she hadn't expected. Anger gone, he was doing all he could to rationalize his behavior and perhaps even garner her approval. He watched her for several moments, and she searched for some response. When she could muster none, she closed her mouth and looked forward with a quiet sigh.

"I don't know much about human interactions," he continued, still observing her warily. "But I do know that love is unqualified and absolute. When you love someone, other people's words do not alter your feelings." He paused as his words softened, but Christine still could not bear to look at him. "A man in love does not allow his brother to call his fiancée a whore."

She felt her lips quiver, but she kept her gaze fixed on the floor of the carriage. "I don't believe you," she murmured nearly inaudibly. She knew her fiancée, and he would never allow such words to be spoken. And yet, she knew that there was no chance that Erik would revoke what he had said.

"Then don't," he snapped, all tenderness disappearing quicker than it came as he set his gaze ahead. "I am well used to your naivety, but to behave as if that boy was some angel simply because he is dead is absurd."

"Raoul is in heav—…" she began as she turned to him suddenly, unsure if she had said it in fury or hopefulness.

"The Viscount will be rotting in a grave in a few days time," he interrupted, a wry smile playing on his deformed lips. "It's a lovely fate we share, is it not?" She knew full well that he was testing her and prodding at her, waiting to revel in her reaction, but she did not care.

"I will allow you to insult me, but not my God," she replied with smoldering bitterness dancing on her tongue. "I will not stand to be mocked about angels or heaven."

"Ah, Mademoiselle—but that is what I do best."


	4. Until the Morning of Eternity

**"We cross bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once, our eyes watered." -Tom Stoppard**

_"I love you, Christine. With all my heart, I love you."_

_The words brought chills down her spine, and she smiled demurely as she felt a blush rise on her cheeks. "I love you too, Raoul." The words were quiet, nearly inaudible for her fear that someone may hear. He seemed to have little anxiety, though, as he let a finger brush her cheek._

_"I want you to be my wife," he told her, affection swimming in his eyes. "If you will have me for a husband." His infectious smile brought a smile to her own lips, and she let out a small breath of air._

_"Oh, Raoul…" she murmured, though thoughts already began to race through her mind. Thoughts of Erik._

_"I want to be with you forever, and I don't want to wait. We can get away from all this madness, Christine." A fraction of his warmth had faded and been replaced with the faintest hints of worry, for they both knew that when he said madness, he meant Erik._

_"I don't know what to say," Christine began, swallowing hard as he began to speak again._

_"Say yes!" he entreated, trying to illicit another smile. "We will go far away, back to Sweden if you want. We can forget what has happened—…"_

_"I cannot leave him." Christine cut him off more sharply than she had intended, and she felt her heart ache as she saw the hurt expression cross his face. With grave reticence, she watched as he contemplated his next move, the silence all but deafening her._

_"If you want me to…To leave you alone… All you must do is tell me."_

_And as she looked at Raoul in that moment, witnessing how painful it was for him to utter these words, all thoughts of Erik flew her mind. Suddenly, a man stood before her who completed her, someone who adored her, would provide for her and would never leave her. What else could she possibly hope for in another man?_

_"I want to marry you," she said before she knew that the words were leaving her mouth. "I want to be with you forever."_

_As the smile broke out on his face and he met her in a kiss, thoughts of Erik slipped back into her mind again, like a ever-present poison. Was he watching her in this very moment? What would he do? For surely he would do something. She was laying down a path as she stood there, and she had a sinking feeling that it would not end in Sweden, and it would not end with Raoul._

_"My sweet, you must wake up." Christine's focus flew back to Raoul, who was looking at her expectantly, a hint of pity in his features._

_"What?" she asked slowly, holding her breath as she watched him sigh regretfully._

_"He's watching you. He's waiting."_

Her eyes flew open suddenly as she gasped involuntarily. They were still in the carriage, but she could feel that it had stopped. Lifting her head from the window she had been leaning on, she turned towards Erik who was, indeed, watching her.

"I'm sorry," she murmured sheepishly, sitting up quickly and tucking a few strands of stray hair behind her ear.

"No need to apologize," he replied, his voice revealing nothing.

After watching him for a moment, she turned uncomfortably and looked out the window, though not before noticing that the driver was not present. "Where are we?" Her eyes passed over several different buildings within their vicinity, until it stopped on a nondescript building nearest to the carriage. Nondescript, save for the small cross situated over the rustic, wooden doors. Her eyes widened as he spoke.

"A church." She turned and he studied her for a moment before letting his gaze wander back to the building. "I'm aware of your… Fixation with your God, and so I found a church. I spoke to the priest while you slept and he will perform the union."

Christine's jaw hung slack as she stared at him in alarm. "Erik, I cannot…" She struggled for the words at first, but forced herself to continue. "I cannot be your wife, not now." Dread sat at the pit of her stomach as she watched his muscles tense irately.

"You recall what you said, do you not?" In her peripheries, she could see him clenching his fists in an attempt to remain calm, though she pretended not to notice.

"I didn't know what I was saying!" she pleaded, though she knew her appeals would fall on deaf ears.

"But you said it. I believe the word you used was forever, and that means marriage." His lips narrowed when she didn't speak, and he squared off his shoulders indignantly. "Or so your faith says."

"Why must you be so condescending?" she demanded, tightening her jaw. His taunts of Raoul were excruciating, but his ridicule of God hit an even deeper chord that she could not describe.

He did not continue mocking her faith, though. Instead, he let out a sigh, watching her with hardened features. "I came here because I thought it would please you." He paused, and she could see his mind working away in this reprieve. "Your love of your God is… Is astonishing, and I thought that He would make you happy. Less…Reluctant to marry such a beast as me."

Her anger diminished and swallowed with difficulty. "You might take care to stop calling him my God. He's your God, too. He watches over us all, Erik," she said gently.

These were not the correct words, evidently. Immediately, Erik's defenses were reinforced, and he was looking on her with the same cold expression. "God forsook me long ago. I have no God." With that, he threw open the carriage door and marched to the other side, opening hers and reaching a gloved hand to help her out. "Come."

Christine extended a shaky hand to grasp his and stumbled as she was led out of the carriage. Whether he didn't notice or didn't care, she wasn't sure, but he pulled her into the church without a word.

She was calmer than she expected as she looked around the interior. The regret and disquiet that had pulsed through her veins had dulled, and she felt numb as her eyes ran over the empty pews. The only other being sat in the front pew, and he turned his head slightly as they entered.

"Come in, come in." His gravelly voice indicated extreme age, as did his bent and unsteady figure.

Erik let go of her arm and they walked slowly down the aisle to meet the aged priest. It wasn't until they were only a few feet from the man, who was now standing before them, that she saw his milky white eyes. Of course he had found a blind man to perform the service—how could she expect anything else?

They wasted no time with pleasantries, and before she knew what was happening, the priest was reciting vows. Part of her knew she had to fight back, for she wasn't meant to marry this man. The man she was to marry was dead, and she could not betray him. What kind of woman would that make her?

But her mouth remained dutifully closed, her body and emotions deadened. Erik's eyes were on her, but she could manage neither a smile, nor a frown. Nevertheless, if he had expected a dutiful fiancée to stand beside him and exhibit counterfeit joy, he didn't show it. And so in sedation, she repeated the vows the sightless priest murmured and let Erik slip the ring on her finger, somehow unfeeling and uncaring.

It wasn't until he priest spoke of a kiss to seal the union that she was brought back to reality. Erik stared at her for several seconds, perhaps gauging whether she would make a move or not. When she only looked down to the ground, he reached out and took her hand. She was still taken aback by the chill of his skin, but she did her best not to flinch as he brought her hands to his lips, placing a small kiss on her knuckles. And as he pulled away, she saw more than heard him murmur in adoration, "My living wife…"

There were no cordialities after the wedding. She stood still at the front of the church as Erik spoke quietly to the priest, exchanging what looked like a document and a fair amount of money. Her new husband returned to her and placed a hand on her back in order to lead her out of the church.

"God bless you," came the call of the priest as they opened the doors, and Christine felt his grip tighten on her shoulder as he heard the words.

The numbness that had engulfed her over that short time faded away as they re-entered the carriage. She sat in the back while Erik spoke to the now-present driver, and her insides began to knot up in despair. This was not how her life was meant to unfold. Not two days ago, she had planned to marry Raoul in a glorious and extravagant wedding. There were supposed to be bouquets of flowers everywhere, and strands of ribbon decorating the pews. She was meant to have the most beautiful white dress she could possibly imagine, and she had been fated to share an unforgettable wedding night as the new Viscountess de Chagny.

Her wedding night…The mere thought nearly made her vomit. Erik had said nothing of their future, immediate or otherwise. What could he possibly expect out of her? Whether or not she liked it, their marriage had been ordained under God, and she knew what that meant. But the thought of allowing this man his divine right—Erik, who had murdered the man she was meant to spend the rest of her life with—brought tears of dread to her eyes.

Erik didn't miss her expression when he stepped into the carriage and they began to move once again. Wiping at her eyes, Christine turned to look out the window in hopes of escaping his wrath. He did not ridicule her, though, but he did continue to watch her.

Perhaps he expected her to ask where they were going next, but she did not. Therefore, he obliged in informing her on his own. "We're going to Boscherville—it'll take most of the day to travel there, I'm afraid." When she still didn't respond or show any sign of having heard him, he continued. "I have a house there. You will sleep comfortably tonight."

She fought back another wave of revulsion, and took a deep, calming breath. "I didn't know you had another home," she murmured. Unsure if he had heard her, she turned towards him slightly.

"I wouldn't call it another home. It is simply a residence—one of many I've obtained around the world." She knew he didn't mean to speak with condescension, but the tone of his voice made her turn away again. "I was born in Boscherville," he said, a pained quality barely evident in his voice.

"Oh…" Fiddling with the ring that laid heavy on her hand, she felt her mind wander. He had told her so little of his past; in fact, the very thought of him being born somewhere hadn't ever crossed her mind. "You have family there?" she asked idly, barely aware that she had even spoken.

"No," he replied sharply. It was apparent that it was agonizing for him to speak of himself and his past—each word he had said seemed to be torn unwillingly from his mouth. Perhaps he felt a need for honesty with his wife. The thought made Christine shiver. "I haven't been to the house since my mother died there. But that was a lifetime ago." He paused before turning to stare out the window as well. "I thought I would sell it years ago. But somehow I thought it would become helpful one day."

"Why is that?" Her curiosity had never served her well, and she couldn't help but endeavor to unravel his mysterious words. It was an addiction, really, to try to understand the incomprehensible.

"Even the few who know me would never think to look for me there."

As per usual, in her attempts to uncover the unknown she only became more puzzled. "I don't understand," she said timidly, not sure if she was meant to.

Erik turned back to look at her, studying her for several moments, reading her expression. He turned back to the window before he spoke, though, his own features unreadable. "No, you wouldn't."

And so, without knowing how or why, they both seemed to understand that the conversation was over.

It was hard to believe that they could truly remain silent for the entire journey, but they did. Eight hours passed swifter than should be feasible. It was an inexplicable characteristic that time had, really. How could it be possible that the things we dread most have a terrifyingly obliging way of meeting us at breakneck speeds?

Therefore, with every second that Christine thought about what would occur that night, the sun seemed to glide even faster across the sky. There were several times that she worked herself into such a panic that she felt herself getting light-headed and nauseous. Right when she was about to ask Erik to stop the carriage, though, it subsided, and time continued to pass her by. When the sun was at its highest, Erik silently offered her some food that the driver had gotten while he was away, but she denied it politely. She didn't wait to see if he chose to partake in the food, but she assumed he didn't—she had never seen him eat, after all.

They didn't arrive at their destination until well after the sun had set. The stillness of the carriage was off-putting after so much travelling, but Christine welcomed the ground as Erik opened the door for her. Without saying a word to her or the driver, he began to lead her towards the house. A lurch of uneasiness came over her as the carriage lumbered away, and they were left alone in front of this dark, old house.

She didn't have much time to take in its appearance once Erik had taken a key out of his coat and opened the door. In disturbing silence, he set down his valise and violin case and began to lead her through the house, his hand resting lightly on her back. It was dark as ink, and she was overwhelmed by the musty smell that typified unused houses as she was led blindly down hallways and around corners. When they reached a room at the end of the hallway, he let his hand fall away as he began to rifle through cupboards, bent on finding something. How he could see a thing, she had no idea, for all she could see were his two glowing eyes as he turned back to her.

And then the darkness was gone. Just like that, he struck a match and lit a candle that he had evidently procured from the cupboard, and set it down on the table. She could see now that it was a small dining room, made for only a handful of people to reside in. After her eyes scanned the room, they moved back to Erik who had set down a small bag she had not seen previously.

"I would like you to eat while I prepare a room," he said plainly, clasping his hands behind his back. "You haven't eaten since before Don Juan, and I can't have you becoming ill."

The frankness in his words struck her even as he walked out of the room. Don Juan… It hadn't crossed her mind to eat over the course of the last day and a half. And had it truly been less than two days since that night? Somehow, her heart did not ache with the sharp pain brought on by immediate sorrow, but rather with that dull grief that only time can bring. Indeed, somewhere between the stage of The Palais Garnier and Boscherville, she had been hardened and even jaded in her thoughts of the world that surrounded her—a numb vessel.

She couldn't taste the food that she had once declined in the carriage, though she knew she must eat, and not only for Erik's sake. Her fingers were shaking from lack of sustenance and a flood of unease, and she could feel the throb of a headache behind her eyes. And so, she forced each bite until she had finished, and sat dutifully at the table in silence. Even so, as he returned for her and began to lead her to another part of the house, she was still visibly shaken. If he noticed, he made no indication.

When he opened the door to the room, she scrutinized it carefully. It was well furnished, albeit dated. A beautiful canopied bed was the centerpiece of the room, and once her eyes had locked on it, she could not look away.

"I'm afraid I could bring none of your own clothing along, for obvious reasons. I've found a few nightgowns of my mother's if you'd like to be more comfortable. I will be sure to have new clothes for you by tomorrow." In her daze, she nearly missed the acidic tone as he spoke of his mother. She didn't have long to dwell, though, before he had stepped back through the doorframe. "I will be back soon to ensure that everything is adequate."

Christine didn't move for several moments after his departure, and instead contemplated the room. With forced determination, though, she finally moved towards the armoire that he had gestured to, opening it to reveal several beautiful, yet antiquated gowns. Pulling out one of the nightgowns, she slowly slipped off her dress and drew it over her head. How odd it was to wear clothes that were not hers—clothes that she did not know and that did not know her. She reminded herself silently that this had once belonged to his mother, who had been dead for some time evidently, yet even that thought did not jolt her. What did alarm her was that bed, and her thoughts of what were to come. With uncertainty, she moved to the bed and sat down, brushing her fingers over the sheets.

When he opened the door, she wasn't sure how much time had passed. She was pulled out of her reverie immediately, though, and her eyes locked on his in apprehension.

"Is everything to your liking?" he asked quietly, clasping his hands behind his back as he stepped inside the room.

"Yes," she replied deliberately, her throat tightening as she spoke. She wasn't sure if she had ever been so conscious of his smallest movements as she fought to read his next move. Nevertheless, it was still a shock to see him slowly move towards the bed and sit next to her stiffly, his eyes not meeting hers once.

"Christine…" he half-whispered, staring down at his hands with chilled gloom. "You will not loathe me forever."

She thought that her heart was already racing, but when he uttered these words, it pounded away even harder. Her entire mouth had run dry and her breath seemed caught somewhere in her throat, leaving her inexplicably unable to make a sound. When he sensed this unrest, he looked up and examined her.

"Christine?" he began, but stopped as words finally spilled out of her mouth.

"I cannot do this, Erik." Between her words and Erik's expression, she could barely contain her nausea. "I am fully aware of your rights as a husband, but I cannot do what you want." Tears threatened to fill her eyes in anticipation, though she quelled them as he slowly stood up with his eyes locked on her.

"What a despicable creature I must be…That you would think I would ever…violate you." He struggled, and the words seemed to be wrenched from his mouth. His difficulty forced him to look away, and he moved back to the doorway despondently. "It brings me great sorrow that you think so lowly of me, Christine," he murmured without looking back at her once as he exited the room.

And so she was left in enigmatic silence, staring at the door as the same pangs of sorrow struck her own heart.


	5. Two Shadows in the Shadow

**"Mind led body to the edge of the precipice. They stared in desire at the naked abyss. If you love me, said mind take that step into silence. If you love me, said body, turn and exist." -"Vertigo" by Anne Stevenson**

We obtained her picture from his home on the underground lake during the second day of the investigation, though the police didn't know her likeness. Philippe and I certainly did, and so when they found the multitudes of drawings in one of his drawers, we confirmed who they characterized. They surprised me, to be honest. He always drew her with a hint of a smile, yet it was so faint that it was quite easy to miss the spark of joy. It was always in her eyes, and it seemed to shine underneath the lead. Some of the policemen marveled at his artistic abilities, and it took all of my restraint not to laugh—they hadn't the faintest clue who they were dealing with. Even I did not know him, but I did understand that his genius stretched far beyond any of our foolish imaginations.

One of the policemen immediately took it to the world above in order to run it in the newspapers. Philippe was offering an absurd amount of money for any information leading to their whereabouts. He wanted to offer an even higher amount for their capture, but Monsieur Prideux insisted that this would prompt citizens to act recklessly in order to detain them. Although these were not the words Philippe wished to hear, I was thankful for them. It was becoming apparent that this Prideux could be an ally if I played my cards right.

Philippe would be a problem, though—he had become a leech on the investigation. Nobody seemed to mind, though, for he was funding everything and paying them additional money for tidbits they found regarding the case. And so, when one particularly young policeman found a pile of papers hidden underneath a floorboard, he brought it to Philippe before Monsieur Prideux or myself. All the same, I had been scouring the house for signs of what Erik might have taken with him when I found a group of them reading the papers aloud.

"'She sings like an angel, and yet she knows nothing of her aptitude.' I'm sure that's not the only thing she's an angel at!" one of them guffawed, sending the others into a fit of laughter.

"This Daaé girl must have been quite the lay—these rich men can afford the best, of course," another said, and I noted that Philippe did not object.

"What are you doing?" I finally asked, clasping my hands behind my back as I approached them coolly.

"We found these papers, and I thought they might contain information regarding about their plans," Philippe replied calmly, turning to face me with a quiet defiance.

"I think it would be best if you give them to me. It does little good to laugh at our assailant—much better to try to understand him." The words were empty, for I knew that there was little use in trying to understand Erik, but I knew they could not argue. Nevertheless, they stood and stared at me for several moments, before the group of policemen looked to Philippe one by one. I watched as his mind ticked away, trying to read my expression and my thoughts, but I revealed nothing.

"Very well," he responded finally, grabbing the pile of papers and shoving them in my hands. "You can barely read them anyway. The man writes like a schoolboy," he snapped, sneering at me before turning on his heel and walking away. His cronies followed him obediently, while I made my way to a remote end of the house to begin reading.

Erik had dated each paper which made it far easier to sift through them and find the first. Philippe had told the truth, though—the words were nearly illegible, and he wrote in a sickly red ink that brought shivers down my spine. He had never told me that he wrote down his thoughts, but that was no surprise. A man did what he could to hold onto his sanity, and this was far tamer than his other methods. Pushing the thought aside, I looked down to the paper and began to decipher the scratch.

_I'm not in control of my mind. It would be fatuous to claim that I was ever sane, but I always possessed absolute awareness of my decisions. I may not have made judicious decisions, and I may have been reckless, but I was never unaware of behavior. But now this girl… This child has overtaken my thoughts, and I find myself lost in reverie for hours on end. And yet she is nothing but an adolescent—I could easily be her father, and yet she has captivated me. I have never felt as foolish, and yet I find myself constantly entertaining thoughts of her, imagining her voice intertwining with my own._

_For she has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. She sings like an angel, and yet she knows nothing of her aptitude, for her ability has not been harnessed or refined. But I can feel the genius that lies deep and untapped within her. She is nothing but a dancer, and a mediocre one at that, but I knew that if I could just get a hold of her…_

_Perhaps I've done a dreadful thing, capturing her mind. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I first made my voice known to her in her dressing room, but as I've said, I can't seem to think in her presence. It's shameful, really—she thinks I'm her father, returned from the grave. And I, as monstrously as ever, have allowed her to believe such a thing. Anything to keep her near me. Anything to keep her dependent on me._

_I have never been so concerned about other people's lives. Even Nadir and his son held a lowly place in my mind compared to her. I want her to succeed, and I want her to shine. I'm at a loss, for I've only ever watched over myself, but I feel a compulsion to watch over her. It is unbearable to care for another human being. I hate it, but I adore it even more._

_Oh, Christine…_

"What's that?" Prideux asked gruffly, and I looked up abruptly to meet his eyes.

"Just some documents I've found around the house," I replied—not a lie, but I wasn't certain of how he would react to them.

"May I see them?" he asked, extending an arm towards me. I studied him for a moment before reluctantly handing over the first page. I hadn't a clue what else these pages held and I feared what he would find. Nevertheless, I watched wordlessly as his eyes skimmed the page, his face remaining stony. When he finally finished, he let out a slow sigh and handed the paper back to me.

"The others underestimate this man, don't they." It was a statement rather than a question, and I nodded in silent agreement.

"Monsieur, he is no common criminal," I said after a moment, and Prideux looked down at his hands briefly.

"He loves her. You can tell by his words." I didn't nod this time, but my eyes afforded him enough of an assent. "And one can never predict the actions of a man who feels love—it's the most powerful drug I know of."

I watched him carefully before standing up slowly, papers in hand. "I believe you are right," I said, unable to hide the sorrow that tinged my voice. What relief, and yet what terror flooded me to know that someone else was beginning to comprehend the magnitude of this man. "May I keep these? I'd like to read through them all," I asked simply, hoping that my candidness would sway him.

His eyes flashed for a moment and I thought he would demand to take them all as evidence. Instead, though, he nodded once and said with grave solidity, "I am trusting you, Monsieur Khan."

I try to think that I would always do what was right, but even I'm not sure if, in that moment, he had made the right decision.

* * *

 

She hadn't even realized that she had fallen asleep until she awoke with a start in the middle of the pitch dark night. It had been a dreamless sleep, which was something of a relief—after all, to see Raoul time and time again in her mind was tearing her apart mentally. Staring up at the canopy, Christine remained still for several moments, the discomfort of an unknown bed and a stranger's nightgown returning gradually. Without knowing what had prompted her, she pushed herself out of bed and made her way to the door without a word.

It was darker than she was accustomed to, and she reached a hand out to the wall in order to guide herself down the hall. Were she not in a drowsy fog, she might have turned back when she realized she hadn't a clue where she was going, but somehow she didn't mind wandering through the house. What was even more peculiar was that she had no apprehension about where Erik might be—she didn't worry about if he heard her or if he was nearby. In fact, not one thought crossed her mind regarding her new husband.

Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself in the front hallway, staring at the front door. Her mind was just beginning to clear when she took the final steps to reach the doorway, yet that didn't stop her from extending her hand and grasping the doorknob. Her thoughts flickered to Erik momentarily, and whether he was watching her. If he was, he wasn't saying anything. With a combination of determination and diffidence, she let her hand turn the knob.

Her heartbeat mounted when it gave way. Surely he would lock the front door to ensure that she remained with him. How could he risk her escaping? Opening the door tentatively, she looked outside into the darkness. Her eyes had begun to adjust, and in the reflection of the moonlight she could see the wooded drive. She couldn't say where it led—she hadn't paid the slightest attention during most of the drive, for she didn't know when they would reach their destination. It was deadly still, though. No sound of carriages or people anywhere; there was only the sound of the wind brushing lightly through the tall trees, bringing a shiver down her arms. The chill of winter hung in that wind, making the encounter all the more ominous.

What would happen if she were to step outside? Or perhaps walk down the drive to see what was beyond it. Or what if she were to just keep walking and walking until she found someone? The thought made her close her eyes for a moment as the wind passed over her once again with its wistful sigh. She knew precisely what would happen—Erik would find her in shorter time than she could possibly imagine. Then, he would drag her back to this house and lock her up, never to see the light of day again.

"Are you going somewhere?" came a soft voice behind her. She hadn't heard him approach, but that didn't come as a shock. Her body remained languid as she turned, but even so, her heart began to beat faster.

"No," she murmured in reply, her voice nearly inaudible under the hushed wind. "I just wanted some air." It wasn't entirely false—she didn't know why she had ventured out, but the air was refreshing in a way.

Erik slowly approached her, no sign of weariness in his eyes. "Then we should step outside," he said diplomatically, placing a skeletal hand on her back and leading her through the threshold of the door.

As soon as she had left the shelter of the house, her body began to tremble from the cold. The stone underneath her bare feet radiated up her legs, yet she stared ahead, watching her breath form clouds in front of her.

"You're cold," he stated as he began to shrug off his dress jacket. She shook her head, though, marveling at the crisp chill that bit at her fingers.

"I like it," she muttered, and she watched in her peripheries as he pulled his jacket back on. "I can feel it." There was no need to elaborate—they both knew the numbness that had afflicted her over the past few days, juxtaposed with the bouts of extreme emotion that would hit her without warning. Just to feel was a wonder.

"How do you know no one will come for me?" she asked suddenly, not turning to look at him. She could feel him watching her, though, with a scrutinizing gaze. After several moments, she worried that he may begin to malign her and point out that her strength was merely feigned. For it was true—any vigor she could muster was immediately eclipsed by her fear of Erik.

"Who in this world would come for you?" he challenged smoothly, his hand still resting against her shoulder blades. "Your insufferable boy is dead—who else would risk their life for you?" His words were eerily calm, making her breath quicken somewhat in quiet distress.

"Meg," she replied, doing all she could to maintain the same level of tranquility. "Madame Giry. The managers. They will come," She could hear the cracks in her voice, but she remained still, unwilling to fall apart once again.

"Will they?" he questioned, turning slightly to look at her in curiosity. "You think very highly of yourself, my dear," he continued, looking out at the trees once again with grim serenity. "My fault, I suppose."

Christine closed her mouth at this, her mind running blank once again. They stood there in perfect silence as the cold took all feeling out of her body, and still when she could no longer feel Erik's icy hand on her back. They remained even as the sun slowly peaked above the horizon, coloring the sky with pale purples and reds. The mist that dwelled between the trees seemed tinted with the same colors, surrounding them in a pastel fog that took her breath away.

"Nobody will come, will they." She swallowed with difficulty as she pressed her fingernails into her palm, searching for feeling once again.

"No. They will not." He spoke with equal frankness, as befit him. Nothing else needed to be said, and they both knew they were meant to turn and step back into the house. She could not feel the wood beneath her feet as they parted ways wordlessly, retreating to their own refuges as sun bled in through the windows.


	6. Write My Hate on Ice

**"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." -Friedrich Nietzsche**

It was becoming increasingly difficult to escape from the others who were a part of the investigation. I had somehow fallen into pace with these policemen, and they were coming to me relentlessly with new questions and findings. Whether this inclusion was due to Philippe or some other force, I wasn't sure, but I did not argue. I knew the value of being the person others relied upon, and I knew the worth of being trusted—Erik's trust of me was the only reason I was alive today, after all.

I was lucky, too, to have an ally in Prideux. He had not said a word to Philippe about the journal, which I was ever thankful for. I needed time to read and absorb everything Erik had written before I let anyone else delve into it. If I let anyone examine it, that is. What's more, it was clear that Prideux understood that I had a history with Erik that was deeper than I was ready to divulge. And yet, he did not bother me for information, nor did he confer with others about my history it seemed. It was in his best interest, though—he understood that if I were not a part of the investigation, they would be utterly lost.

Even so, I cherished each moment where I was away from prying eyes, for while Prideux appeared to be my advocate, less judicious souls surrounded me as well. It was the morning before I went in to the Opera House when I finally had a few moments to continue on in his narrative. And so, as I sat in my meager apartment, I pulled out the papers once again, turning to the second page before I began to read.

_I've stolen her. I wish I could call it by a different name, but I would be lying if I did. She was exquisite in the gala performance, as I knew she would be. Of course, people lamented the wretched "sickness" that afflicted Carlotta, but the very moment Christine opened her mouth and her voice soared, all of those thoughts were quelled. I've never felt so much pride for another human being, but my very heart swelled at the sound of her voice._

_Naturally, she garnered several adoring fans that night, and I cannot deny that Monsieur de Chagny was the reason I took her away. To see him barge into her dressing room with that charming glint in his eye… He presumed to know her and attempted to take her away, but I will not allow him to. I cannot help but smile as I imagine what a shock he must have had when he returned to the dressing room, only to find that she had mysteriously vanished. But it is all that can be expected when one encroaches on the Opera Ghost's domain!_

_And so, without qualms, I seduced her with my voice, put her into a daze, and lured her into my home. I restrained my own fascination, for I was nearly as enraptured as she was as we crossed the lake. I hadn't a clue what to do with her once she was in my home, though—I hadn't been thinking far enough into the future to anticipate those moments. And so, I did the only thing that I could think of—I sang her to sleep so that I could organize my thoughts and carefully plan for tomorrow. And now I write this, looking to her in the bed across the room. This angel incarnate…_

_What have I done?_

I read it several times calmly, perhaps examining his words too deeply as I so often do. It wasn't until the next sheet peeked out from underneath when my focus shifted. His script was already clumsy, but this was somehow different. It had been written so hastily and with so much fervor that I wasn't sure if it was French at first glance. But slowly, I began to discern each word as my heart sank with dread.

_I sent her away. It took all my willpower to do so, for fury was pumping unrestrained through my veins. How do I even begin with any semblance of composure? We were singing, and what heights we reached! Even I was lost in the glory of our voices, overtaken by her beauty. That was the downfall of it all. Before I could register the fact that she was reaching towards me, she had torn my mask away without preamble. I saw red, and in that moment I thought that she had screamed, but no—it was me. I grasped at my deformed features, trying not to see the horror that swam in her eyes. She didn't make a sound, but stared dumbly, her hands flying to her chest in some useless gesture of defense._

_I don't know what I said, but I could feel the fear emanating from her form as she backed away. I felt myself lunge forward in response as curses flew wildly out of my mouth, all humanity I possessed slipping away. I took her wrists in my hands and she let out a cry for the first time, though I did not hear. I can hardly believe my actions, but I was not myself. Or perhaps, for the first time with her, I was myself._

_Shame. What a terrible emotion, and yet I feel it so acutely when I think of what she must think, for I care for her so deeply and despise myself so wholly. She is gone for now, but even in my despair I know that I cannot bear to let her go forever. Truly, I am a monster._

I could feel my brow knitted in dismay, and I let out a measured breath. Even I had not seen his face, and yet I knew of his severe hatred of it. Without knowing how, I felt his brutal hostility and her innate fright at the same time, and it tore my heart in two. I longed to turn the page and continue on, but I could not bear it. With trembling hands, I slipped the papers away and stood up, forcing myself to make my way to the door and pretend to forget what I had just read.

* * *

_"Do you believe in monsters?" The voice came from the young and carefree Raoul de Chagny as they walked slowly along the sand, looking idly out at the sea periodically. The sun would meet the horizon in a few hours, but neither of them seemed to care, nor did they take notice of the matronly woman who was walking a few yards away, watching over them._

_"Of course! But if you do not bother them, they do not bother you," Christine replied innocently, her hands clasped lightly behind her back as her eyes roamed over the waves. "There's no reason to be frightened of monsters, really."_

_Raoul laughed at her matter-of-fact tone, which sent her into giggles as well. "Do you believe in angels?" he continued, and her face lit up even more._

_"There are angels everywhere!" she exclaimed. She stopped walking and he followed suit, as did their chaperone. "Raoul, there are angels watching over you and me, and everyone!" Exuberance overtook her and just as she threw her hands up in the air, a gust of wind took hold of her little scarf and stole it away from her neck. With a gasp, Christine reached out her hands and tried in vain to catch it, but before she could, the wind had allowed it to fall delicately into the sea. A defeated look crossed Christine's face as she stood at the shore, staring out at her scarf as it bobbed up and down in the water._

_Raoul didn't say a word before he dashed into the water, unabashedly fully clothed. His chaperone, on the other hand, rushed towards them as she screamed for him to come back._

_"Raoul de Chagny, would you like your father to hear about this?" she yelled, all but ignoring Christine who was watching Raoul in fascinated admiration. "Young Viscounts do not rush into the sea with all their fine clothes on! Come back here at once!"_

_He did obey, but not until he had her scarf held victoriously in his fist. "Your scarf, mademoiselle," he said gallantly, bowing despite his dripping clothes before handing over the scarf. Christine threw her arms around him tightly, not seeming to care that the cold water was permeating her dress._

_When she pulled back, things had changed. His chaperone was gone, yet they were still at the Scandinavian sea. Raoul, before adolescent and naïve, was now fully-grown, not a day younger than the last day she had seen him. Looking down at her own hands, she could see that she too had aged, yet the scarf was still clenched tightly in her fingers._

_"Which do you think Erik is?" he asked simply, and her attention shot back up to him. Somehow, the question didn't bother her._

_"He is…" she began, but stopped as her eyes drifted back out to the sea. She had only blank misgivings and could not provide an answer, but Raoul didn't mind._

_"He is both," he offered, and she looked back, surprised to see a slight smile on his face._

_A strange kind of anger coursed through her as she read his expression, and she swiftly looked back out to avoid his gaze. "He is a monster. What he did to you is unspeakable," she insisted, her jaw clenching in fiery indignation._

_"You don't truly believe he is only monstrous, my dear. There's no need to lie. It is your mind, after all."_

_His voice had changed, and it turned her blood ice cold. A cry escaped her lips as she looked back, only to find that Raoul was not there—it was Erik who was standing beside her, staring stoically at the horizon._

_"Where's Raoul?" she asked slowly, her eyes studying him._

_"He had to go. He had an appointment with the grave that he simply could not miss."_

Her eyes opened suddenly, yet she found herself oddly calm. Her surprise at these dreams had long since vanished, but they still left her unnerved. Shaking the thoughts away and swallowing back her mortification, she slipped out of bed and dressed for the day mechanically. She knew what she was meant to do. She knew that she was supposed to go downstairs to meet Erik and perform the duties of a devoting wife. What that meant exactly, she couldn't say, but she blankly made her way down the stairs nevertheless.

He was there in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea while breakfast sat at the table. When she crossed the threshold into the kitchen, he set down his teacup and stood cordially, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Her dead expression did not change, though, as she sat down stiffly and began to eat. He sat back down and watched her, but this no longer troubled her. She was used to his eyes, particularly when they sat at the table together. She all but ignored him, focusing instead on forcing herself to chew and swallow each bite of food.

After Christine had finished and set down her utensils, she folded her hands in her lap and looked up to meet his eyes with dutiful compliance. She knew her role, now—she was the obedient and ever-submissive doll that he had always wanted. Even so, it was difficult to maintain eye contact as his gaze burned into her, never wavering. Just as she felt her determination thinning, though, he spoke.

"We will sing today. I believe we've had enough of a reprieve, and I can't have your voice wilting."

Christine felt her stomach sink, yet she did not argue as he stood up and gestured for her to follow him. With a deep breath, she rose and followed, purposefully remaining a few feet behind him. Before long, he led her into a room at the far end of the house that was outfitted with a covered piano and a few chairs. Rather than uncovering the piano, though, he grabbed his violin case from against the wall and unloaded his instrument.

"Are we singing Don Juan?" she asked automatically as she stood uncomfortably in the middle of the room.

He looked up at her without a word as he worked the rosin up and down the bow. "No," he said finally, his focus returning to the bow. She watched as he drew the bow over the strings once before setting his instrument down on the piano bench. He went back to his case, wherein he had stacked several pieces of music. "Fidelio," he told her, taking out a few sheets and handing them over to her.

"Beethoven," she remarked as she looked down at the music. "I've never sung it," she said dumbly as her eyes ran over the notes.

"That is why we call it learning," he said sharply. He never meant to be patronizing, but she knew that when it came to music, he hardly knew how he sounded. She watched closely as he picked his instrument back up, opting for it over the piano. He gave no warning before he threw himself into the music, evidently recalling the notes from memory.

With a start, Christine shifted her eyes down to the music in order to follow along, barely able to take a breath before she had to begin. "O wär ich schon mit dir vereint und dürfte Mann dich nennen!"

_Oh, were I already with you, united, and might call you husband._

She knew she was struggling with the notes, for she was hardly accustomed to sight-reading without warning. He did not stop her, though, nor did he seem perturbed. "Ein Mädchen darf ja, was es meint, Zur Hälfte nur bekennen."

 _A maiden could confess only half of what she thinks_.

Her breath became shaky as she took in the words she was saying—she had been taught German as a child, and these words resounded thickly in her head. Her husband. Not Raoul, but her compulsory husband. The thought made her breath catch and her heart sink.

_But, when I don't have to blush over a warm heartfelt kiss, when nothing interrupts us on Earth—the hope already fills my breast with inexpressible sweet pleasure, how happy will I become!_

"I cannot sing this, Erik," she blurted out before the second verse could begin, and he abruptly stopped his playing.

"Why ever not?" he demanded, his grip tightening on his bow possessively.

"You know why I cannot." She spat the words back so forcefully that even she was shocked at herself. No, she could not sing about marriage or happiness now—if anything, why not allow her to sing a lamenting aria? She knew she could manage to rouse up those emotions.

"I see no reason why you cannot continue. I will give you a moment to look at the music if you insist, but you will continue," he responded stubbornly. She saw his eyes narrow in frustration and she felt her heart rate mount in distant fear.

"No, I will not. I am not a child anymore, and I will not allow you to speak to me in such a fashion," Christine said in spite of her alarm. She squared off her shoulders as her eyes locked with his in a blatant refusal to comply.

"You are acting quite childish presently, Christine. I will treat you according to how you behave." His body had tensed equally as he faced her fully, but she would not back down.

"I am your wife," she cried, hardly able to believe the words coming out of her mouth. "You dared to force me into this union, and so you will afford me the respect I deserve." Dread coursed through her veins, but she pushed that apprehension aside—if she did not say these words, she would be nothing but his puppet for the rest of her days.

"And I am your husband." She was taken aback by these calm words, but she clenched her jaw in hopes of not revealing her shock. "And yet you look on me with fear, and you treat me with abhorrence." He set down the violin deftly and took a step towards her, his eyes flashing in a sort of dare.

"Because I'm afraid!" These were not the words she had meant to say—she hadn't wanted to appear weak, but she couldn't restrain the sentiment. He didn't respond, nor did he react. "I could never read your thoughts, and I cannot predict what you will do from one moment to another." A spark of provocation crossed his eyes and she felt an instinctive need to back away, but she quelled it. "I'm terrified that you will do something reckless, and I will be at the receiving end of it!"

His brewing rage had diminished at this and she saw his eyes soften instantaneously. "I would never harm you," he said without pause, taking a step towards her.

This time, she did take a quick step back, unable to contain her inherent panic. "Your anger blinds you, and I cannot help but to fear what should happen if in your fury, you do not recognize me." Her voice shook, but she swallowed back the anguish that was tingeing her voice.

"Christine…" he began, but words were spilling out of her mouth before he could continue.

"I thought you were going to kill me that night, Erik." Her lips began to quiver as memories of that evening inundated her mind once again—memories that she was doing everything in her power to crush.

Torment flooded his expression as they stood there, staring at one another. It was only a few moments, though, before he took several slow steps towards her, wrapping his long arms around her crumbling frame. Without knowing what she was doing, she felt tears begin to stream down her cheeks as she pressed her face into his chest.

"Please forgive me," was all he said as her body shook with uncontrollable sobs.


	7. The Evening Primrose

**"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way."-Pablo Neruda**

It was a deep and moonless night, still as ever. Both Christine and Erik were seated on the hard steps outside of the Boscherville house, enveloped in the bitter and frosty mist. He sat stiffly in his formal attire, holding a cup of bitter tea that had long since gone cold as he stared out onto the drive. She sat adjacent to him, her eyes also trained in the distance as she set her cup down next to her, gripping her coat in hopes of capturing its warmth. Without knowing how or why, these nightly occurrences were becoming more prevalent, despite the ever-present cold as winter approached. They rarely spoke to one another once they were seated, though such a routine was never formally created. It was simply known and unconsciously acknowledged.

Tonight was no exception. The stars were radiant in the sky, shining brighter than they had since she arrived at Boscherville. She couldn't bear to miss the moon, though, as her gaze shifted up into a night sky that seemed to be overflowing with stars. In her wonder-induced daze, she wasn't aware that words were coming out of her mouth until they had already escaped.

"They're like diamonds," she said softly, not turning to look as Erik shifted his gaze upward towards the heavens.

"They're much more vibrant when you're no longer in Paris," he replied matter-of-factly as his eyes swept across the velvety sky. Just as she was about to turn her attention back to the trees and slip back into silence, he lifted his hand and pointed to a spot in the western sky. "Do you see those five bright stars there? Spica, Auva, Zavijava, Vindemiatrix and Porrima."

She hadn't heard the names before, but she searched until her eyes found the bright clump of stars that he was speaking of before nodding faintly. In their arrangement, they looked like a headless body, sprawled out carelessly across the black cloak of night.

"Virgo. Do you know the story?" Erik had always told her stories, but never this one. Without a word, she shook her head as her eyes remained steadily focused on the stars. "The Greeks believed in a number of gods who all had control over various parts of their lives. Demeter, who was one of these gods, gave birth to a girl named Persephone. Persephone was light incarnate, and she grew up to become a delight to those around her. But her kindness was not her only virtue, for she was so unbearably beautiful that even Aphrodite, to goddess of love, began to notice her."

Her focus sharpened as she took in his words. Still, Christine would not look to him, even as she felt his shift drifting back to her. A feeling of dread began to build within her, yet she would not avert her gaze from that brightest star that made up the foot of this constellation body.

"Not to be outdone in beauty and thus overcome with jealousy, she sent Eros to shoot the Prince of the Underworld, Hades, with an arrow of desire. And so, when Hades saw the lovely Persephone picking wildflowers one afternoon, he could not restrain himself. Without a word, he opened up the very earth beneath her feet so that he could steal her away and hold her captive in his underground kingdom."

His voice was unchanged, and if he had apprehensions about recounting this story, he was not showing it. The cold had already brought shivers through her body, yet his words shook her deeper, for it was painfully evident that he had thought of this story before. However, her base intrigues kept her silent and utterly unable to ignore him.

"Her mother was quick to notice her absence, though, and when she searched for her daughter and discovered that Hades had taken her, she beseeched Zeus, the king of the gods, to release her from his hold. Zeus agreed, for he knew of the waking world's love for Demeter's dear Persephone. But, when they reached the Underworld and found her daughter, now Hades' queen, they were troubled, for she could only return to the world above if she hadn't eaten anything from his kingdom." His voice had turned ever so slightly and her eyes shifted back to him as her breath caught in her throat. She could not fully read his tone, though, as it always seemed excruciatingly intricate and filled to the brim with ambiguity.

"She had eaten seven pomegranate seeds, though, and her fate was sealed. She had to remain with her captor. As a compromise, Persephone was permitted to return to her mother, a month for every seed she did not eat. Demeter's joy made her fill these months with warmth and bounty on earth. For the months that her daughter was away, she would throw the earth into a bleak winter." He stopped for a moment, his eyes turning back to the stars in profound contemplation. "We endure winter all for love," he remarked thoughtfully.

"Love that was against her will," Christine replied with more defiance than she had intended. Just as she felt the urge to demand if their stories were truly linked—if she were allowed her time in the world above—he began to speak once again.

"Who is to say that she did not learn to love her place in the Underworld? The Queen of Darkness…" He murmured nearly inaudibly, something eerily akin to a smile playing on his lips as he stared in wonder at the stars.

Hostility engulfed her momentarily as she followed his gaze up to the stars and back down to him. As her eyes fell on him in scrutiny, though, she felt the anger give way to fascination briefly; his masked side was turned away, and as she watched him, she found herself marveling at how very ordinary he looked from where she sat. How very similar to anyone else…

"Will you tell me you love me?" he continued after a pause, and she was pulled out of her reverie. Instinctively, her eyes widened in befitting shock and she felt herself recoil slightly, not remotely prepared for such a question.

The words that came out of her mouth were blunt and hasty. "No. I do not love you." This wasn't completely true, nor was it completely untrue. The love that was within her was reflexive, uncontrolled, and unwarranted in her eyes. But more importantly, it wasn't the love that Erik desired or craved, and she knew that. Despite the vagueness in her heart, though, she knew she could not say those words.

She was unsure of how he would react, yet her reply didn't seem to faze him. He merely turned his gaze back out to the trees with expected detachment. "You would have despised a life with him, you know," he continued, as if the question had never been asked, the story never told. Once again, she found herself taken aback by his rapid shifts, but she tried to control her incredulity.

"You cannot know that," she told him stiffly. She could feel her defenses mounting once again as her fists clenched with boldness. Had he not learned that broaching this subject would bring on emotional turmoil that he wasn't willing to contend with?

"Oh, yes I can," he told her frankly, his expression unchanging. "You would have lived a life unknown to you. You think that love is enough, but you cannot understand what his world is made up of." He looked at her quickly before she could argue, and continued. "I am not calling you childish or naïve, Christine. You simply know nothing of the evils that lurk in that world."

She felt her bitterness lessen and her hands unclench as she studied his eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked slowly, her brow wrinkling in insatiable curiosity.

"His world is full of counterfeits and snakes. You think I am evil, yet their malice goes far beyond mine. I know that seems impossible, but you would have learned." There was poison laced in his words, and she could plainly see the acrimony such people elicited.

She did not argue, but neither did she concede to his idea. She knew that he wanted to plant a seed of doubt in her mind about Raoul's nature, but she would not allow such manipulation. Without a response, she turned to look away from him, hating the pettiness she sensed in her action.

"It would have been a life without music. You would have had no choice. And while you fancy thinking that I do not know you, you must admit that I am aware of your intense attachment to music. It is an attachment that I share, after all," he said reflectively. "But you would have been cut off from that world. You would have remained a trophy for the rest of your life, stuck on a pedestal that you could not escape."

She turned suddenly, antipathy written in her features. "You treat me like a trophy. How can you possibly deny that?" she accused, her fingers curling around the concrete of the step in order to keep herself from physically lashing out at him.

"I don't expect you to understand," he began, but this time she did not let him continue.

"Of course you don't! You never expect me to understand anything, because I am nothing but a doll to you," she spat, heat racing through her veins suddenly. The night was getting to her, and her emotions were running wild as wounds reopened. She did not censor herself, though, and he did not seem to be bothered.

"My love goes beyond pride and arrogance, Christine," he replied, calm as ever. "It is utterly inexplicable, and if I could have the choice, I would choose not to feel it."

Once again, her anger was snuffed and she was left wordless, staring at him in astonishment. His words had struck her, and for a moment she could not respond. "You would choose not to love me if you could?" she asked, surprised at how acutely the words stung her.

"Of course," he said easily, his gaze falling effortlessly upon her. "How could I possibly want to feel vulnerable at every moment, or want to die for another human being? What a dreadful thing to feel. But I do."

His candidness stunned her, and she felt her mouth hang open as she searched for words. Vulnerability…A word she never would have linked with this man before her. Finally and unwillingly, she murmured, "Yes. To love is a dreadful thing."

Erik did not respond, though, and remained seemingly indifferent as they both fell into silence once again. Time slipped by, and just as she felt her fingers beginning to grow numb, she sensed him stand up next to her. Holding out a hand, he helped her up before they moved back into the house, carrying their cups in just as they always did.

"I love you," she tried, though even she could feel the forced tone that gave her falsehood away. Nevertheless, she swallowed hard and looked at him as he turned. There before her, a rare, yet miserable smile appeared on his lips.

"You needn't say that, Christine. Even the sweetest untruths are still merely lies."

There was no resentment in his voice, but rather a measure of contented lucidity that only cold realism can impart—the kind of tragic eloquence that is like to tear apart a soul.


	8. Infinity Settled Over Me

**"On my breast you lean, and sob most pitifully for all the lovely things that are not and have been." -Edna St. Vincent Millay**

Another day at the Opera House was before me. The young policemen were given the job of combing through the underbelly of the Palais Garnier in order to find all of its secret passageways and hidden corridors. I asked if this was really necessary—if we were truly going to find anything for all of that work—but it became clear that they simply had nothing else to do. With no evidence that pointed to where the two might have gone, they were desperate. They had put a picture of Christine in the newspapers with a reminder of how large the reward was, but nothing had come up thus far. And so, without any other lead, they had resigned to exploring the cellars.

My age hindered me from coming along, or so I said. I had trekked through them before and I could easily do so again, but I wasn't interested in journeying through those tunnels again. Instead, I made my way to Christine's old dressing room—it had become my refuge during these days, a place to think and read while the fools who surrounded me ran about wildly.

Pulling the papers Erik had written out of my briefcase, I sat myself down and began to read once again.

_I fear that if I don't write, I will be tempted to murder that insipid boy. I hadn't meant to frighten her when the chandelier fell, but when managers choose not to listen to their ghosts, accidents are bound to occur. If they had only put her in the lead role as I had demanded, none of this would have happened! If they hadn't sold my box, and if that infuriating Joseph Buquet hadn't gone sneaking around my kingdom, I would not have had to kill him. But alas, it seems that nothing can go Erik's way, and the world must conspire against him!_

_Christine… She has betrayed me. To write the words tears me apart, but it I cannot delude myself. She thought she was clever, stealing away to the roof of the Opera House. Cunningly done, my dear, for how should the Prince of the Underworld see you when you're so far above ground? But she underestimated me, for I was there. I was behind Apollo's Lyre, and I saw the two of them, playing their game of engagement._

_And I saw them kiss. How I had the restraint not to swoop down and break his neck, I still can't say. But worst of all was that she enjoyed it—my Christine, my dear, sweet and innocent Christine savored his lips!_

_But this is not the end. That atrocious boy is ignorant indeed if he thinks he will take her away from me. Dear Viscount, the play will continue and it will end my way. We mustn't make the fatal error of mistaking the intermission for the curtain._

"Khan," came a voice, and my eyes flew upward to meet those of Philippe de Chagny who was standing haughtily at the door.

"Monsieur le Count," I said stiffly, yet civilly. Standing up automatically, I presented a short bow of my head as a courtesy before looking him straight in the eye and continuing. "How may I help you?"

"What are you doing in here?" he asked bluntly, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the room suspiciously. It hadn't changed since the night of Don Juan, and the dying flowers from that evening still littered the room. No one wanted to enter the room for fear of receiving some dreadful curse, which likely explained Chagny's distrustful glances.

My eyes flickered down to my papers before looking back to him. "I'm doing some reading for the investigation," I told him simply and candidly, knowing there was no reason to lie.

He sauntered over to me and picked up the papers without preamble, his eyes skimming over the words. It wasn't difficult to decipher what these were—how many other men wrote in the same manner as Erik, after all.

"You haven't finished reading these yet?" he demanded, dropping them back on the table as his flashing eyes returned to me. "What in hell's name have you been doing while you're here?"

I tried to remain calm and collected as I clasped my hands behind my back. "I've been very preoccupied with the other needs of the investigation. I'm doing my best, Monsieur."

"You're doing your best?" he repeated coldly, taking another foreboding step closer towards me. "I am not dim, and it is not hard for me to see what you are doing," he warned, his jaw clenching in thinly veiled exasperation.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Monsieur," I replied, forcing serenity to fall over my tone in order to conceal my rising trepidation. "I am doing all that I can—…"

"Don't feed me your fabricated garbage, Khan. You are hindering this investigation, and if I wasn't aware that you have some understanding of this monster's psyche, I would have thrown you out the first chance I got," he threatened in a hard voice. "You would do well not to cross me, because you are hanging on a thread."

With that last word, he turned on his heel and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I took a slow breath as I sat back down and looked at the papers wearily. Yet despite Philippe's admonishment, I couldn't make myself pick them back up and continue reading. And so, with deliberate waywardness, I stuffed them back into my briefcase and relaxed into the chair, staring resignedly into the large mirror on the opposite side of the room.

* * *

_"Christine, thank God."_

_She knew where she was. She was in Erik's underground home only moments after the Palais Garnier had been plunged into darkness on the night of Don Juan. And there was Raoul, right before her and as clear as day. She stared at him incredulously, unable to stop herself from studying his all too lucid features. He was there, right within reach…_

_"Raoul!" she felt herself say, though she hadn't noticed the impulse to speak. Her feet were bringing her towards him, and when she saw the horror in his eyes, she knew that Erik had poised his gun. Turning with painful acuity of what was to come, she let her eyes meet Erik's. He too was far more realistic than should be possible, and it made her skin run cold._

_Her mouth ran dry as Raoul pushed her behind him, standing boldly and fearless in the face of death. But instead of observing him as she had that fatal night, she turned her attention to Erik who appeared even more fearsome now that a weapon was clasped in his hand._

_"You will not harm her." These words she had not heard. Or perhaps she simply couldn't recall them having been said on that night._

_"You think I could act violently towards her? My dear Viscount, your ineptitude continues to astound me." Suddenly, his eyes were on her and she could feel the startled look on her face. "Why are you looking at me with that absurd expression? You must make your promise now."_

_Her eyebrows furrowed, but she conceded nonetheless. With a few short steps, she had moved out from behind Raoul and was nearing Erik, the same look of bewilderment still drawn in her features._

_"You mustn't make this promise, Christine. Things will not go how you wish them to—I will not live through the night," Raoul beseeched her, but she did not hear._

_"Put the gun away. I will stay." They were the lines she was meant to say .She spoke them just as she recalled, for she was becoming increasingly aware that this was indeed a play they were performing. With dutiful compliance, she waited for his line._

_"You selfish girl. You think your infidelity can be so easily erased? No, it is too late for apologies and promises." The words didn't have the same bloodthirsty malice that they held that night. In fact, Erik seemed oddly serene, perhaps expectant of the events that were approaching._

_"I will stay with you forever. Please." With excruciating deliberateness, she let a hand gently rest on the unmarred side of his face as her lips met his. Things were different things time, though—where the action had once been filled with dread, there now resided hope. She didn't recoil when one hand caressed her neck and the other pulled her closer._

_But just when she was beginning to think that the events would unfold differently, she heard the gunshot. Terror raced through her veins as she pulled away from Erik who was standing before her, gun back in hand. A hand that had just drawn her towards him. She had no time to consider the fallacy, though, for she was already turning to look back at Raoul's body._

_There he was, blood coursing out of his chest just as it had on that night. And there came the inhuman shriek from her mouth, the sound she never thought she would hear again. But as she kneeled down to see his eyes, as she had before, she was taken aback. This was not Raoul's face before her—this was some other man, completely unknown to her._

_"What have you done with him?" she asked suddenly, already aware that this was not part of the script. This was not what she was meant to say._

_"What do you mean?" Erik replied, a hint of aggravation in his voice. "He's right there."_

_"No, this is not him," Christine insisted, though she continued to stare hard at the corpse, hoping to see Raoul's face appear before her once again._

_"How can you not recognize him?" he asked, his irritation morphing into wonder. "Did you not love him?" he asked with blatant curiosity that made her heart sink._

_"Of course I did! But this is not him!" she cried out, turning back to Erik who was now smiling with shameless amusement._

_"How quickly we forget!"_

It was her own voice, crying out at nothing, that awoke her. She sat up, overcome by oppressive heat, and threw the sheets off of her body instinctively. Her breathing was rapid and her heart was beating at an incomprehensible rate. Immediately her mind went to Raoul as she recalled the events of the dream.

His face…It had been so clear when the dream began, but as she sat there clutching at the bed frame, she was at a loss. And why did it feel so sweltering? Without another thought, she threw herself out of bed and wrenched open the window, closing her eyes as the winter air brushed over her. But there, on her eyelids, was that unknown face—that face that was certainly not Raoul's.

Still unable to bear the unaccountable warmth, Christine sank to the ground, relieved to feel the cold wood of the floor taking over her body. And yet, even then she could not erase this stranger's face from the imprint of her mind.

"He had a strong jaw," she murmured to herself in a firm tone filled with patient endurance. "And his hair was soft. It wasn't blonde but it wasn't brown." Running her fingers along the planks of wood, she repeated these words and continued on. "His eyes were powdery blue. His nose was…" She stopped and her eyes darted about the room in a search for the answer. When she found none, she felt her throat begin to clench as her eyes welled up with tears.

"His nose was long, and his cheeks were always flushed," she tried, but she knew that the half-hearted images didn't give him justice. The watery tone in her voice only made the tears form faster, and they spilled onto her cheeks. "He had small ears, and…" she said louder, but the volume didn't make it any truer. "And he was tall."

With an unrestrained sob, Christine buried her face in her hands as her shoulders shook in sorrowful resignation. The man she had created was nothing but a stock gentleman. He was nothing special, nothing specific—just a man with no marked individuality—and it tore her apart.

She didn't hear the door open, but she did hear someone breathe her name with agonizing concern. It wasn't until she felt a body kneel down and touch her arm that she finally lifted her face and saw Erik beside her.

"Why are you crying?" He stumbled over the words in his urgency, wrapping a thin arm around her shoulders in some semblance of comfort.

"Erik," she wept, unaware that she had leaned into him until her face was buried in his chest. Her body was already exhausted from her lament, but there was no stopping it now.

"Christine, you must tell me what's wrong. Are you hurt?" he demanded, trying in vain to meet her eyes and receive some reply. The ridiculousness of the question would have made her laugh in any other circumstance, but it only brought about another onslaught of tears. "Christine, please tell me—," he tried once more, and words finally began to spill out of her mouth in nearly incomprehensible torrents.

"I cannot remember him," she cried out without restraint. When he didn't respond immediately, she felt herself begin to speak once again. "I cannot remember what he looks like!"

He didn't indicate whether he construed who she was talking about or if he even comprehended her words. But, without a further question he drew his other arm around her and pulled her closer, resting his cheek against the crown of her head. And if she had taken a moment to peek through her seraphic anguish, she would have felt his tears mixing with her own as she sobbed herself to sleep.


	9. What Savage Blossom

**"I wrench the clock that was my heart out of my breast." -Heiner Müller, "Hamletmachine"**

She knew she shouldn't be snooping through a house that wasn't hers. But then again, wasn't it hers in a way? Arguing with the likes of Erik would be useless, but nevertheless, there was just enough justification for her as she trekked silently through the house one early morning. She hadn't heard anything from Erik since the night before and for all she knew, he was awake somewhere in the house as well. Perhaps he even knew she was wandering about...

The very thought of the night before brought shivers down her spine, but whether it was because of her thoughts of Raoul or her astonishment at Erik's compassion, she wasn't sure. The idea was staggering, and yet it was difficult to decipher what had been dream and what had been reality. After all, she had awoken safely in bed, just the same as when she had gone to sleep the night before—who was to say the entire event hadn't been an unprecedented dream?

Pushing these thoughts aside, she forced prompt courage upon herself as she padded through the house, a small gas lamp balanced in her hand. The house was larger than she had anticipated, for the façade looked quite modest to her eyes. But with each turn, there seemed to be more hallways and dusty fixtures, all having clearly been neglected for years. She hadn't a clue where any of the doors led, and they all looked equally inconspicuous to her eyes.

Finally, Christine urged herself to try the knob of a door adjacent to her as she walked down the hall, and it gave way. It smelled overwhelmingly of dust, but she didn't mind, for the mere history of the room afforded her some comfort. Making her way into the room, her eyes searched the corners of the space as the light hit the walls. The first thing her eyes caught was a wooden table stacked with books and papers that were neatly arranged. Something else was there, though—something that she could not identify—and she took a step nearer to study it.

It was something akin to a box, but there was no lid on it. It was octagonal, or perhaps there were even more sides, and it was made up of little dust covered mirrors that reflected off of one another. As she leaned closer, the light of her flame caught one of the mirrors and instantaneously, the box appeared to be illuminated from the inside. With a small gasp she felt herself recoil and the light disappeared as quickly as it had materialized.

It was as she backed away from this little contraption that an image on the wall captured her attention. It was a painting of some sort, covered in a thick layer of dust that obscured the image. Stepping closer to examine it, she blew hard on the canvas to remove some of the dust. After the cloud had dispersed, she could see a face that stopped her heart dead. It was a woman, and it looked just like her.

Even as she blinked and brought the light closer, she still couldn't shake the resemblance. Her hair held the same curl, her eyes embodied the same sheltered wisdom, her neck had the same curve... The very bone structure that made up this woman's face mirrored her own. Her eyes searched the painting for some evidence of who this woman was, for it certainly wasn't herself—she had never had her portrait painted, after all. The only trace of identity she could find, though, was a small name at the corner of the painting: Madeleine.

"It's my mother," came a voice behind her, and Christine whipped around to see Erik standing there, hands behind his back. He was watching her with perfect composure, but she couldn't help feeling some kind of guilt for her discovery. She felt her hands begin to tremble, causing the glass of the lamp to shake, though Erik stepped forward and took it from her evenly.

"She was beautiful when she was young, was she not?" he asked, his eyes moving to consider the painting thoughtfully.

Pushing back her urge to question their resemblance, she asked, "Were you close to her?" She glanced back at the painting as well, the action quelling her nerves somewhat.

"No," he said in a short tone, stiffening slightly. Christine looked back to him for a moment, her eyebrows furrowing. "No…" he said again after a moment. "She despised me." The words were simple, but their weight and his cold affect struck her nonetheless.

"I'm sure that's not true," she insisted, taking a few steps towards the picture and brushing her fingers across the canvas. "You're her son."

When he didn't respond, she turned back to him, hoping for some kind of reinforcement. While he seemed quite at ease, he still didn't provide any accord and instead shifted the subject.

"Would you like to go out today?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers with an expectant gaze.

Christine stared at him for a moment, perhaps too staggered to respond initially. "Yes," she said finally, a smile bursting onto her face. She hadn't been outside in the daylight for so long—a fact that hadn't occurred to her until that very moment. And while the air was cold and snow was imminent, she still felt glowing anticipation bubbling within her. "That would be…I would love that," she finally said, almost catching a hint of elation in his eyes as she beamed at him.

"You aren't upset at me for exploring the house?" she asked hastily before he could continue, a fraction of concern supplanting her animation.

"Of course not—this is your home," he responded without a moment's pause, as if any other answer would be nothing short of absurd.

It wasn't until much later in the day, after they had both eaten and dressed for the cold weather, when they went outside to meet a brougham waiting in the drive. The same man who had driven them to this house initially was sitting there, and Christine felt herself smile at someone familiar. He did not seem to see, though, and so she let herself be led into the carriage by Erik without another word.

When he followed her in and the carriage began to move, she turned to him with eager expectance. "Where are we going?" she asked as she clasped her gloved hands in her lap.

"To a park in Rouen," he replied simply. It was clear that he was trying to hide just how pleased he was to see her so eager, and so she turned back to look out the window obligingly. Small snow flurries were just beginning to fall as she did so, and she touched the window lightly in awe. The sun had hidden behind the clouds by the time they reached the park, but she didn't mind in the least. As they came to a stop, she didn't even wait for Erik to open her door—she threw it open herself and stepped out onto the gravel path that was lightly dusted with a thin layer of snow.

Upon seeing this, Erik rushed out and came around to the other side of the carriage, though stopped as he saw her merely standing and taking in the surroundings. Turning to him, confusion crossed her face as she saw his hesitation. All at once it became clear to her that he thought she was going to run away, to try to escape somehow. Rather than acknowledging this, though, she merely smiled and moved towards him.

"Can we go down that way? I think I saw some rose bushes that don't know its winter yet."

It was barely visible, but she still saw the nervous tension in his eyes release as he nodded cordially and they began down the drive. She didn't bother to look back at the carriage, for she knew that it would wait there for them.

They did not walk arm in arm, though they walked close enough that every so often, their shoulders would brush by chance. This didn't seem to bother either of them, though, as they walked in meditative silence down the path. As they reached the rosebush in question, Christine rushed ahead a bit and crouched down to examine a flower near the hard earth. Delicately, her gloved fingers touched the hoarfrost that clung gently to the edge of each petal as a frown played on her lips.

"Will they die soon?" she asked, turning back to look at Erik who was standing mutely behind her, watching her carefully.

"Yes," he told her plainly, his eyes shifting to those icy blooms. "Particularly if no one is here to tend to them. They won't be able to take the cold if they're uncovered." She saw that he read her look of concern, and he quickly amended his statement. "But they're perennials—they will be back."

This seemed to satisfy her, and she stood back up so that they could continue on down the path. It was a voice behind them that stopped them, though.

"You!" the voice said, and both Christine and Erik turned quickly to find its source. There, ambling towards them was a middle aged man with a finger pointed straight in her direction, a newspaper clasped in his other hand.

"Pardon me?" she said automatically, retreating back to Erik out of pure instinct. She glanced in her husband's direction, but his expression was stony as he stared grimly at the man.

"You're this Daaé girl," the man said as he reached the two, shoving the newspaper in front of them. Indeed, there on the page was a drawing of her, clear as day. She was so caught up in studying this picture and the words underneath—prix: 15.000 ₣—that she barely felt Erik's hand grasp her arm roughly.

Before she knew what was happening, they were walking away, Erik determined to find safety in the brougham as quickly as possible while Christine remained silently dazed by this encounter.

"No, you must stay here!" the man exclaimed, though he knew that such a demand was empty. How in the world would he force them to remain with him, after all? All for fifteen thousand francs...

"You must have the wrong girl," was all that Christine responded as she glanced over her shoulder at the man who was standing there, dumbfounded, in the middle of the path. She could hear him calling out after them, unable to keep up with Erik's speed, but she did not hear his words. In fact, before she could comprehend what had happened, they were back in the carriage and it lurched away.

It took a moment for Christine to regain her mental footing, and she remained in stunned silence for several moments, staring dumbly at the floor of the carriage. This man recognized her… Her picture was in the papers… And who in the world would offer such a steep sum for her capture? And was that even the right word? Was she some kind of criminal, or was she a hostage? Finally, her attention flickered to Erik whose deadly eyes were boring holes in the window.

"What just happened?" she said finally in a weak tone. It was not the right question, but she didn't know what else to ask. When he didn't answer, she tried something else. "Where did they get that picture? I've never had a portrait done."

This time he turned and looked at her wearily, the hardness of his eyes diminishing. "It was mine. They found it underneath the Opera House." He didn't seem embarrassed, nor did she feel uncomfortable by this proclamation.

"Fifteen thousand francs," she breathed, the sum even more daunting as she spoke it aloud. "What does it mean?" she asked slowly, watching him curiously as he looked back ahead with firm destituteness.

"It means we will have to be more careful," was all he said, making a point not to look back at her.

With that, Christine turned back and looked out the window. The park was well out of view, but in her mind's eye she could still see the man, newspaper in hand, barking at them. The occurrence didn't scare her. Rather, what frightened her was that she didn't have a single impulse to try to run or communicate what had happened to this man. She didn't feel any kind of inclination to beg him to save her. He was the first outsider she had encountered, excepting the driver, and no small part of her wanted to seek help from him.

Yes, that was quite terrifying.


	10. Impetus Is All We Have

**"What is this life? A frenzy, an illusion, a shadow, a delirium, a fiction. The greatest good's but little, and this life is but a dream, and dreams are only dreams." -Pedro Calderon de la Barca, "Life is a Dream"**

I couldn't say what drove me to blatantly ignore Philippe's threat, but a peculiar instinct told me not to listen. Perhaps it was because I had little to lose should he decide to fire me—I wasn't a Parisian by any standard, and while I could not return to Persia, I had few qualms about moving somewhere else. The only thing hindering me was Erik. Something inside told me that I had no choice but to follow these chaotic events to the end. But whether that was under Prideux and Philippe or not, I wasn't sure I quite minded.

While I didn't read the rest of the journals on my own, when I came in the next day I found that I simply had to tackle them. There was no way around it—I had to find out what occurred in Erik's mind in those last few days. What I had read thusfar was nothing short of painful, but I knew it was necessary if I were to confront him. If I ever found him, that is.

Sitting myself down in that chair across the room from the mirror, I pulled out the papers with shaky hands and forced my eyes to take in the messy scrawl that filled the final pages.

_There's something truly poetic about a masked ball. Perhaps I am biased, but I find immense satisfaction as I watch people prance around in false faces. But what's far more convenient is the fact that I will be able to walk amongst them, and not one soul will believe that the Opera Ghost stands before them. They will think me a rich aristocrat, or a well-meaning patron. Which I suppose I am, in all reality._

_What pleases me the most is that I hadn't even suggested this masquerade! Of course, after the chandelier, I all but disappeared from the managers' world. And as if by fate, they chose this to celebrate my disappearance. Naturally, I will make a tragically eloquent appearance, and all will be chaos, just as I prefer it._

_And dear Christine will think she has fooled me and will try to hide her engagement. And yet, she will still steal furtive glances at Raoul and exchange hushed whispers, as if no one would witness their unusual behavior. But I will see it, as I see everything, and I will find utter elation as I also see her searching the corners of the room for any signs of my presence. For she will know that I will come._

_Who could ever resist a masquerade?_

I knew precisely what was to come after this entry, for soon after this very incident, Christine and Raoul came forward to the police. My heart deadened to think of the poor Viscount who, at the time of these entries, hadn't the slightest clue that his life was coming to a rapid close.

_Impetus. This is the stage we have arrived at, and I find more satisfaction from it than I should. Christine believes I know nothing of her plans, but I know everything. I remind myself vigilantly that she is under the control of the Viscount, and I will forgive her when the time comes. But as every day passes and she continues to lie to me as we rehearse for Don Juan, I find myself slipping farther and farther from this absolution. Even now, as I write this, her mind burns riotously in my mind. She is a vixen, and yet I must find the power to exonerate her. She doesn't know what she is doing._

_The Viscount de Chagny does, though. Or if he doesn't, I mark him as too self-absorbed and ignorant to live with my Christine. After tonight, things will be different, though._

"Khan." It wasn't said with the unrestrained venom of Philippe, but I still looked up quickly to see who was addressing me. There in the cracked doorframe stood Prideux, arms crossed as he surveyed me. I looked down at my papers—perhaps Philippe had told him and threatened him as well. Perhaps he was to cut me off from the investigation at this very moment.

"She was spotted," was all he said, and every one of those thoughts that had raced through my mind disappeared. I set the papers down on the table next to me and stood up slowly, waiting for him to continue.

"Near Rouen. They were seen in a park. Some man contacted us raving about the reward and how they were right there in front of them."

In a park… What could they possibly be doing out in the daylight, unless Erik hadn't thought that people would be looking for them. "What happened?" was all I asked, barely able to come out of my stunned silence to speak.

"The man saw her looking at a rosebush. He hasn't a clue who the man is, but he recognized the girl and showed them the newspaper and told them they had to stay." Prideux chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Naturally, they didn't stay. Seeing a reward underneath her picture may have hurt his case, but nevertheless, we know where they are."

"How do we know they weren't on the move?" I asked slowly, crossing my arms as well. "And if they weren't, what's to say they won't fly now, particularly since they know we are searching for them?"

Prideux shrugged and continued speaking gruffly. "Well, we know they weren't on the move before, because they would be much farther from Paris given how much time has elapsed. But you're right—there's no evidence to suggest that they won't pack up and leave." He took a few steps towards me, and I could feel him weighing his words before he spoke. "I've told the Count that they've most likely left so that he won't send all of his resources there to search and give everything away. I have also told him that I'm sending you to go investigate, and insisted adamantly that you are, indeed, trustworthy."

"I am," I said immediately, for I knew that he was juggling him doubts about me and his understandable concern about Erik's control. "When do I leave?"

"We will talk about that later tonight. Chagny wants to brief me on how this investigation should be proceeding before we make any more decisions," he said, and I could hear the wry tone in his voice. "I'm sure I'll learn a thing or two." With a smirk, he turned and left the room without a word regarding the papers.

With shaky hands, I felt myself drawn back to them, as if magnetically. I would be going to Rouen to find them… And Prideux was allowing me to report whatever I chose, and withhold what I didn't want Chagny to know. I'm sure Prideux already knew this, but he was giving me the opportunity to help them escape and claim that I never saw them. I allowed myself to be deluded, though, into thinking that I would make choices for the greater good and not for my sake or Erik's sake. Or Christine's sake, for that matter.

With these thoughts swimming through my mind, I looked back down at the papers and swallowed hard. It took me a few moments to refocus on the red ink, but I eventually began to take in the words once again.

_After tonight, things will be different, though. The fanciful side of me (and yes, such a side, however guarded and cold, does exist) thinks that Christine will willingly leave with me and forget about her boy. But the realistic side, forever gnawing at my brain, knows that things will not go so simply. If she doesn't do something reckless, then Chagny certainly will._

_And ever one to follow the crowd, I will invariably commit some reckless act as well._

* * *

 

_They were on the steps of the Boscherville house and the night sky hung above them, moonless and starless. It was a black void looming over their figures, hinting at the eternity that always resided over their heads. It was not Erik who sat beside her this time, but Raoul—a woundless and intact Raoul._

_"I wanted to show you a constellation, but they're not out tonight," she said, as if this was a reasonable explanation for the inky sky. Turning her gaze towards him, she took in his features as he turned to look up at the heavens. Yes, this was the Raoul she knew, precisely as she remembered him on that night._

_"I thought you had forgotten me," he said, as if he could read her very thoughts. Her jaw slackened in surprise at this, and she looked down at her hands immediately, not wanting to meet his embittered gaze. "You told him that you couldn't remember what I looked like."_

_It bordered on accusation, and she looked back at up at him curiously. "I couldn't," she replied plainly._

_"And you can now?" he asked, his eyebrows rising challengingly as he stood up, pride swelling through his body._

_"Well…Yes," she said slowly, also rising from the steps. Suddenly, she found that he was much taller than she remembered, and he was looking down at her sternly, as a father looks down on a child he is reprimanding. "You are not yourself," she insisted, forcing a smile on her face that she could not maintain._

_"Of course I'm not—I'm dead," he snapped, turning and beginning to walk down the drive. She had no impulse to follow him, but she did listen as he turned around and shouted back at her. "I suggest you decide where your loyalty lies, because you will not be alone for much longer. They're coming."_

_She barely took in these words before the sky lit up with stars and she was blinded into consciousness._

Sunlight hit her eyes and they flickered open, the dream still fresh in her mind. Somehow her heart was beating at a comfortable pace and she felt no disquiet as she sat up in bed and glanced out the window. It had snowed the night before, yet the sun was shining full force this morning, as if it wasn't aware that winter had arrived.

Erik was nowhere to be found when she had dressed and went down to the kitchen to have breakfast. The solitude was something of a relief, though, and she cherished the moments lost in thought as she ate.

Her mind went to Raoul without trouble, and she immediately began to recall the dream. It was foggier than it had been earlier, and fragments seemed to be missing. But what still rang clearly in her memory was this new Raoul… He looked just as he had on the night he had died, and even now she could make out more of her features in her mind's eye than she could a few nights ago. And yet, his voice held a sharp quality that wasn't characteristic of her former fiancée. All kindness gone, he seemed nothing short of cruel. And yet, as she finished her breakfast, she had to remind herself that this was not reality—that this was a dream, and nothing more.

Erik seemed to appear just as she finished, and she wondered faintly if he had left her alone intentionally. Nevertheless, she bid him a good morning as he entered the room and asked him how his night was. How very mundane such a question seemed—how very ordinary.

"Adequate," he said, pausing for a moment before continuing on. "I would like to sing once again today. Would that be acceptable?" he asked with stiffness evident in his voice.

"I would love that," she said, a genuine smile appearing on her lips. Music always had such an effect on her, and he knew that. "May we sing now?" she asked, standing up eagerly as she watched him hopefully.

"As you wish," he said, turning and leading her through the house to the same music room they had resided in previously. "Rigoletto today," he told her simply as they settled into the room. He handed her the music and she looked down at it in interest as he pulled out his violin. "Don't be fooled by the sixteenths—it's not a swift song by any means."

This afforded her some relief, and she felt her breathing quicken as he began to play the introduction. Naturally he would have her sing without warming up—despite so much diligent practice and his insistence that patience was central to singing, he still had a need for immediacy when they began lessons. As if he could not wait to hear her sing a moment longer than necessary.

Sight-reading the piece was difficult, but she found herself immersed in the elegant lines and soaring notes that seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Caro nome che il mio cor festi primo palpitar, le delizie dell'amor mi dêi sempre rammentar!"

The words took her breath away—dear name, which first made my heart throb, you must always recall to me the delights of love! And somehow they did not bring her the same ache the previous aria had. Rather, these words were a triumph to her ears! As she finished, she couldn't wait to begin again, but was unsurprised as he began to specify various phrases and clean the lines she had fumbled.

The ending was where it began. With a nearly incomprehensible set of measures full of vocal tricks at the top of her range, she found herself struggling. She was not deterred, though, for she knew that such pieces took time and patience, just as he had always taught her. No aria would become second nature until she had sung it more times than she could count. Even so, Erik seemed dissatisfied at best.

"The melismas are messy," he told her at one point, playing the array of notes for her once more before looking back at her expectantly. Despite being disarmed by this criticism, she tried once again, but she knew it was not up to his standards. And yet, she couldn't help but feel he was being unreasonable—he had never wanted her to accelerate so quickly in a piece. If anything, rushing the process of learning only solidified bad habits—another thing he had taught her at the Opera House.

"We have neglected your studies too long. We must be more diligent," he told her stonily, and she frowned instinctively as he glared in her direction.

"I've just gotten this piece, Erik… We will make it perfection incarnate!" She smiled at the words—perfection incarnate—he had always used that phrase to describe pieces at the height of their precision. And yet, he didn't seem to hear this. Instead, he brought his bow back up and began the introduction once more, indicating that she should begin. Instead, she abandoned the music and took a step towards him cautiously. "What's troubling you?" she questioned earnestly, trying to meet his eyes.

"That man!" he burst out, nearly throwing his violin to the ground in his explosion of rage. Knowing better, though, he placed it on the table and set off in a pace across the room, running a hand through his hair. "That man will ruin everything, and all because I allowed you to go outside." The words were nearly under his breath, but she still heard them clear as day.

"We went outside," she corrected, quelling the desire to grow frustrated. "And I was quite grateful to go out to the park. I enjoyed myself very much…" The words were tentative, and as he looked back at her in silence she felt all of the gnawing irritation bubbling within her dissipate.

"I didn't run away, Erik," she told him, and the realization hit her once again. She hadn't tried to escape, and while she still couldn't fathom why, she knew there must be some significance. The look in his eyes indicated that he understood this, and yet he didn't respond. Rather, he picked up his violin and bow once again, rage gone, and began the piece with newfound serenity.

_"E pur l'ultimo sospir, caro nome, tuo sarà!"_

_And even my last breath, dear name, will be yours._


	11. There At Dusk I Found You

**"Only the phoenix arises and does not descend. And everything changes. And nothing is truly lost." -Neil Gaiman**

It wasn't until the next day when I was pulled into Philippe's makeshift office—it was Madame Giry's domain, in truth, but she had disappeared shortly after I saw her on the night of Don Juan. He had made it his own, with men standing stiff-backed at the corners of the room, perpetually waiting to do his bidding. He was sitting at the desk, hunched over a stack of papers, when Prideux led me into the office and sat me down in one of two chairs that faced Philippe before taking the adjacent one. We sat in silence for several moments until Philippe finally looked up, a stern and reproachful look on his face.

"Hello again, Monsieur Khan," he said, his lips tightening in unrestrained distrust as he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "Let me first say that you are lucky to be here. If the gentleman next to you wasn't so sure of your incomprehensible worth, you would be out on the streets." I didn't say anything to this, nor did I look to Prideux. I could tell that Philippe was frustrated by his lack of control in the situation, for he knew that if he severed me from this case, he would have no case.

Still, part of me questioned if Prideux truly had that much faith in me. It was blatantly evident that he deeply resented Philippe. Everyone seemed to know that Prideux had been involved with the Préfecture de Police longer than anyone else in the case, but as always, money trumped wisdom. Yes, part of me was quite aware of the fact that Prideux was using me to aggravate Chagny as much as possible—and frankly, I didn't mind one bit.

"As you know, we will remain in Paris to continue the investigation," Philippe continued, and I was pulled back into reality. "I expect full daily reports when you arrive in Rouen. If I do not receive regular updates, I will send officers to arrest you on the spot for duplicity."

"Yes, sir," I replied judicially, nodding my head in understanding. I had to capture his entire trust—precisely why, I wasn't sure. But I knew that things could not remain the way they were; I could not deal with the tyrant Philippe had become, nor could I abide by his constant meddling.

"I gave the order for either assailant to be shot on the spot should they be found," Philippe began, his eyes drifting to Prideux for a moment. "But I was told that this was barbaric. Somehow people seem to forget that my brother's death was barbaric, and we Chagny's firmly believe in the notion of an eye for an eye." The venom laced in his words was unmistakable, yet I couldn't stop my thoughts from leaving my mouth.

"We aren't certain of anyone's guilt." The Count's eyes flew to me, flashing with a sharp warning. "For all we know, Christine may be a hostage," I tried, but all I received was a sneer from Philippe. I could see the insults playing on his tongue, but he somehow managed to restrain them. Quickly, I changed the subject, hoping that these impulsive words weren't enough to make Philippe change his mind about Rouen. "Are there any leads as to where they might be living?"

"That's why you are going there," Philippe snapped in a cold tone, narrowing his eyes as he surveyed me. "But if you insist on proving yourself incompetent, perhaps I will send someone else."

"He is beyond capable." It was the first time Prideux had spoken, and I turned to look at him in unmasked surprise. He was returning Chagny's glare with cool indifference while somehow maintaining a base level of esteem. "If he proves otherwise, you can personally place blame on me," he said offhandedly, clearly aching to leave the room, utterly overwhelmed by his own exasperation.

"Believe me, I will." With this, Philippe looked back at his papers, which was more than enough of a signal for us to leave. We had barely closed the door before Prideux began to mutter curses under his breath, marching away with newfound alacrity. As I followed him, he began to speak to me openly with little apprehension of who might overhear.

"You can't make any errors on this one," he told me, and I nodded once, though I wasn't quite sure what an error truly entailed. Perhaps he read this uncertainty as he looked at me sideways, and he stopped us immediately. His eyes met mine firmly, and I did not avert my gaze.

"He will crush you if you are not careful." I did not respond, and he let out a reluctant breath, shaking his head. "He isn't dim—he knows you have some connection to his brother's killer, and he knows that you do not share his animosity for him. He is waiting for you to make a mistake so that he can knock you aside while still benefiting from your expertise."

"Why doesn't he simply do it then?" I spit out, my jaw setting in vexation, but I knew the answer before Prideux replied.

"He resents your association to this murderer, but all hope of success rides on it." Something akin to a smile played on his lips as he continued one. "You already knew that. You're not dim either." He paused for a moment, and the smile faded as his eyes hardened. "Just don't do something reckless."

And as he said this, I couldn't shake Erik's words from my mind—words that seemed burned in my retinas: _And ever one to follow the crowd, I will invariably commit some reckless act as well._

* * *

 

_There were masks everywhere. She knew precisely where she was the moment her dream stabilized, and yet the painted faces still brought a jolt of fear through her. Every person she saw was costumed in an ornate fashion, and as she looked down at her own dress, she saw that she too was clad in a long white gown. Hindsight hit her, and she knew what would occur as the night wore on—this was the infamous Masquerade, and soon Red Death would appear to reveal his plans for Don Juan. For a moment she stood paralyzed in horror amongst the dancing bodies, but realization jerked her back to the scene before her. She had to find Raoul._

_She tore apart her mind to remember what Raoul had worn to the masquerade as she scanned the crowd, hoping to be prompted by one of the costumes. It was only a few moments before she remembered the black and white domino combination, and she rushed off in order to find him. Only seconds later, she saw him mingling with a group of decorated guests, laughing as he sipped champagne from a gilded flute._

_"Raoul!" she cried out, yet nobody seemed to hear but him. He turned around in surprise, his eyes meeting hers before he turned back away nonchalantly. Her feet instinctively carried her to him and she grabbed his shoulder firmly in a panic. "Raoul, we must leave!"_

_Raoul looked rather disturbed by her intrusion and he looked back at his friends, who were watching her warily, and excused himself inaudibly. She took his hand and rushed him to a corner of the room, her heart racing painfully against her chest._

_"What do you want?" he demanded, pulling his hand from hers as a frown set on his features._

_"Erik is going to come, and if we are still here when he does, the outcome will be disastrous," she implored to him, reaching for his hand once more._

_He pulled his hand away deftly before she could grasp it, and he studied her with calm detachment. "Isn't that what you want?" His voice wasn't accusing this time, but it still stung. She felt her mouth hang open for a few moments as she searched for words before she finally replied._

_"No, of course I don't want that! You will die if we don't do something!" He did not have to respond for understanding to get a hold of her. "You are not here…" she said slowly, her hands dropping slowly to her sides as she looked at his numb face._

_"You don't want me anymore. You don't need me. And if you do… Well, there's nothing to be done about it, is there?" He had the objectivity of a parent telling a child about the loss of a pet—detached, caring, and yet not mired by the declaration._

_"No…" she murmured after a moment. It was at this instant when she realized that the sound of the masquerade had faded. Indeed, as she looked past him, she saw that the room was now empty._

_"Life is a heartless thing. And yet it must be faced with courage and shameless audacity day in and day out." Her eyes darted back to him, and she felt her breathing become shallow as her eyes filled with tears. "You will be crushed if you do not find your bravery, Christine. And it cannot be bravery for the sake of me."_

_"Because you are dead…" she finished for him, and excruciating awareness flooded her senses. Just as the words left her mouth, she saw Erik standing in the empty room behind Raoul, watching them. Not Red Death—just Erik, with no theatrics shrouding his figure._

_"Because I am dead," Raoul repeated, turning to look at Erik in what seemed to be welcoming recognition. He looked back at Christine for a moment, and gentle acknowledgment passed across his eyes._

_And then, with throbbing clarity, Raoul smiled encouragingly, his eyes following her as her feet carried her away. Erik was there, his hand reaching out towards her, and their eyes met daringly as she interlaced her fingers with his. They held each other's gaze for a moment, before Erik's eyes shifted past her towards Raoul as he nodded kindly to his adversary. She turned to look at her former fiancée once more, still unable to quell the heart-wrenching sensation that was pervading her senses._

_It was only when she saw Raoul's eyes light up, just as they had on that day at the sea, or when he first saw her at the opera, or when she accepted his proposal, that she finally felt the weight lift off of her. The grief still encompassed both their smiles, and yet it did not devastate them. The sorrow was merely there, inherent in their hearts. And somehow that was alright._

It was still the dead of night when her eyes opened and she felt the burden of her dreams wash over her. Tentatively, she sat up and brought her hands to her mouth as her mind recalled the dream that was already slipping away from her. She clawed at it, though, and pulled it back into her consciousness, willing it not to ebb away.

She couldn't say how long she sat there, silent and still, remembering what her mind had just conjured. When she couldn't contain herself any longer, though, she pulled herself out of bed and wrapped a thin robe around her shoulders and left her room. Automatically, she found herself walking towards the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, but found a kettle already on the stove with wisps of steam curling out of it. The stray remnants of sleep told her that this was likely from earlier in the evening, and she did not question it as she poured the water into a teacup.

Perhaps she should have known that Erik would be out on the doorstep, his own cup of tea in hand, and yet she was still taken aback when she opened the door. He seemed caught off guard as well, and he stood up quickly as he eyed her with a measure of concern.

"Is something wrong?" he asked automatically, but when he saw the teacup in her hand, his alarm faded away. Nothing else needed to be said, and they both sank back down on the steps, ignoring the ever-present winter air that enveloped them. Gripping the teacup with a bit more force, Christine fixed her gaze on the drive as words emerged in her mind. Despite the valor she tried to invoke, she found herself unable to voice her thoughts, which didn't escape Erik's notice.

"You have been dreaming of him," he said candidly, and she could not restrain her intake of breath. How inexplicable that he always seemed to be able to read her very thoughts. It was a comfort and a nuisance all at once.

"Why do you say that?" she asked, doing all she could to mask her expression, her eyes not moving from the distant trees.

"You call out his name in your sleep," he told her, and this didn't seem to surprise her. His preternatural hearing had been off-putting when she first knew him, but now it was simply an attribute that she had come to accept. "And I can see it in your eyes."

As he said this, she turned and met his gaze. His recognition brought something between sorrow and relief to her features, and she swallowed hard to restrain any threatening tears.

"He tells me things in my dreams… And I don't know what's real," she murmured, despising the unmistakable weakness that tinged her tone. "I can't discern the man who is in all of my dreams from the man whom I loved."

She thought at first that this would spark antipathy within him, but he merely observed her with an expression that revealed nothing.

"I've had nightmares about him that frighten me to death, and then tonight—…" She broke off for a fleeting moment, looking back out ahead of her, no longer able to meet his gaze. "He told me that I had to be courageous, yet not courageous for him… Because he was dead." The tears that had been pressing on her eyelids were gone, replaced by cool curiosity as she continued.

"He gave me to you." Christine turned back, and she even caught the split-second of astonishment that his eyes betrayed. "And you nodded to each other, and you understood each other, and all was well." The words were coming out of her mouth, and yet she still couldn't comprehend why she was telling him. Perhaps she simply needed the words to be said aloud for her to believe she had truly dreamed such a thing.

"It's astonishing. It's as if he's really there," she breathed, and he broke in without missing a beat.

"He's not." The words weren't cruel, but they wounded her nonetheless. "He's not ever returning, except to your dreams." Her instinct was to stand up and leave, to lash out, to accuse, and yet she sat silently and merely listened, too fascinated to move. "You should feel fortunate, though."

When he did not continue, her eyebrows furrowed and her bitterness mounted. "Why in heaven's name should I feel fortunate?" she asked, the acidity in her tone evident.

"Because dreams are as real as anything else," he replied easily, as if such a remark was to be expected. "They are in our minds, after all, and all that we know is that which we think. Who is to say that anything outside the confines of our minds is truly real?"

All that we know is that which we think. This didn't solve any problems, and she shook her head in unrepressed doubt. "But you're real. And you're not in my head," she argued, setting her teacup down next to her on the cold stone as she eyed him.

"I'm not?" he asked, and she knew that he was testing the boundaries of her mind, willing her to expand her perspective. "What makes me any more real than any of your dreams?"

Rather than answer, she felt her eyes narrow slightly, unable to quell her suspicion. These were not the words she had expected. He wasn't hurling insults at Raoul or mocking her grief or speaking to her with unemotional condescension. He wasn't even convincing her of his own worth. No, these were words uncharacteristic of Erik, and they only brought about more bewilderment. "Am I dreaming right now?" she challenged, truly unsure of the answer. The world around her seemed tangible enough, and yet the world she inhabited in her dreams always seemed genuine in the moment as well.

"Who knows?" She had never heard him speak in such a prophetic way, which made her question the reality encircling her even more. This bothered her initially, but after several moments of reading his expression, she let out a sigh of acceptance and looked up at the stars, her eyes catching Virgo automatically.

Slowly, her eyes drifted between the stars as she recalled the tale, with all of its tragedies and triumphs. And while she couldn't quite discern if she was being hit by reality or a dream, she felt her hand reach over and deftly grasp his. In her peripheries, she saw him glance down at their joined hands before he followed her gaze, taking in the stars with deference. When she felt his hand tighten its hold on hers almost imperceptibly, she felt herself hoping this was not a dream. And it was desperate and inexplicable and grand all at the same time.


	12. Autres Temps, Autres Mœurs

**"Not every road to paradise is lined with beauty. But then again, it depends on your definition of "beauty," doesn't it?" -Ella M. Riddle**

It was difficult to recall precisely what had happened the night before, but as she awoke, Christine sifted through her thoughts to try to piece it all together. If the lines between dreams and reality had been foggy last night, the combination of the present sunlight and another few hours of sleep made them even hazier. Still, as she sat up in bed, she could feel the ghost of a sensation in her hand—the vague feeling that once, it had been held. The reflection brought an exhilarated chill to her skin, but she forced it aside as she dressed for the day and made her way to the kitchen.

Erik was already sitting at the table in silence, an untouched cup of tea at his right hand. From behind, she watched inquisitively as he let a finger run up and down the handle of the teacup. Just as she was about to marvel at the fact that she had come into the room unnoticed and unheard, he spoke.

"I am aware of your presence." His head moved almost imperceptibly so that he could see her out of the very corner of his peripheries, before he stood up cordially and motioned for her to sit down. A startled expression crossed her face, but she nevertheless drifted towards the table and sunk into a chair, studying him intently as he sat back down.

He didn't look at her for a moment, and she felt her heartbeat quicken instinctively. He seemed astoundingly composed, yet she knew better than to judge his thoughts by his outward behavior. Still waters run deep, and she knew far too well that his mind was reeling; she could only hope that he was not cross at her for something. Yet, as she sat and watched him, she couldn't bring to mind anything that could have sparked his annoyance, unless of course he had decided to change his mind about her dream and reprimand her for thinking of Raoul.

"It's Sunday," he said finally, his eyes trained on the tea before him. Pulled out of her thoughts, she blinked a few times and clasped her hands in her lap civilly.

"Oh?" she asked, unable to find a more suitable response to such a vague statement. What was she to say to this? Was he hinting at something that had happened last night, or was he implicating some event that was to come?

"Sunday, December 25th," he continued, still unwilling to meet her gaze. For a moment, her mind stopped and she hadn't the faintest idea of what she could possibly say. Finally, after several seconds of gaping silently at him, she choked out a few words.

"It's Christmas…" Her mouth was dry as she swallowed, and yet she could not place the emotion that was brewing within her. There was joy, for Christmas had always been an affair when her father was alive. They saved all year to savor the little joys on Christmas, and despite having to celebrate the holiday in a far more lackluster manner over the past few years, it still held poignant memories for her. But there was also some kind of sorrow within her, if only because she hadn't known until this very moment.

"Yes," he said, clearing his throat as he finally looked up at her. She could not read his expression, for she knew he was aiming to keep his face blank. Still, she made no effort to hide her own ambivalent emotions as she placed her elbows on the table in order to lean towards him slightly.

"There is a church nearby," he began, and she felt herself being overtaken with breathlessness. "And if you would like, I will allow you to go to the service this morning." The apprehension in his voice was evident, for each word seemed to be torn unwillingly from his mouth. She couldn't contain herself, though, and she flew up from the chair and rushed towards him in utter elation. Ignoring the startled look on his face, she leaned down and kissed him lightly on his unmarred cheek before standing back.

"Erik, thank you so much," she cried, unrestrained tears welling up at the corners of her eyes as the dream world from the previous evening flew her mind. "When will we go?" she demanded, a bright smile playing on her lips.

She could tell that he was pleased with himself for having made this decision, but just as he was about to let out a smile, he stopped and stared at her severely.

"I will not be accompanying you," he said in a stiff voice, standing up slowly. "I will be dropping you off and waiting for you in the carriage. I am trusting you—…" he began diplomatically, but she interrupted him without a thought.

"You won't come with me?" she asked, her face falling at the thought.

"You can hardly expect me to enter a building like that," he sneered, not bothering to restrain the malice in his voice. His expression only softened slightly when he saw the dejected look on Christine's face as she struggled to respond.

"But you came into the church when we were married," she countered, though she felt the weakness in her own voice and silently berated herself for it.

"That is not even remotely similar. I only did that for you," he reasoned, an exasperated look crossing his face, clearly losing his already thin patience.

"But this is for me too! Christmas means everything to me," she argued, fleeting resentment sparking behind her eyes. When she saw that he wasn't budging, she felt her expression and voice soften imploringly. "Please, you don't need to take communion, and we don't need to sit in the front. We can find a pew in the back, and you won't be seen—…" This time he interrupted her, his wrath turning on like a switch.

"You think I won't go to the church because I'm apprehensive about being seen?" he boomed, approaching her slowly. Intuitively, she felt herself back up as she brought her hands forward defensively. To this, he reached for her wrist and grasped it tightly, not hearing her involuntary gasp.

"N-No…" she stuttered as she fought to pull her wrist away, her eyes widening as she watched the rage radiate throughout his body.

"I do not enter churches because I do not have a god. I will give no institute the pleasure of thinking they have deluded me into some counterfeit faith." He stepped closer to her still, wrist in hand, until she felt her back hit the counter behind her.

"Erik, I didn't mean—…" she stammered, finally getting her wrist free as something other than fear rushed through her veins. Some deep betrayal was forming within her as he derided the single thing she believed in most. More than Raoul, more than love, more than music—God was always there, and yet Erik was maligning Him and discounting Him at this very moment.

"If there is a god, he gave me this face. And if any god could give me such a face, I will never worship or even acknowledge him!" he roared, looming over her threateningly. Her mouth hung slack as she searched for words and grasped the counter behind her, leaning as far away as she could. She saw him take in the terrified look in her eyes, though, and he immediately backed away, running a frantic hand through his hair.

"The carriage is outside," he finally said hurriedly, his back to her as he gathered his composure. Tentatively, she took a step away from the counter and clasped her hands together, unable to stop herself from shaking.

"You'll still allow me to go?" she asked timidly, her eyes remaining wide in fright. Unable to control herself, she jumped slightly when he turned around to look at her, fearing another wrathful assault. The heartrending look lacing his features made it clear to her that he did not miss this, but she did her best to hold her ground.

"Yes, of course," he said weakly, turning to the door and making his way out to the front of the house. With hesitation at first, she followed him as her heart continued to race in her chest.

Her mind reeled with things she wished to say as they entered the carriage and bounded off down the drive. How the way God made his face didn't change the way God made the rest of him. How she resented his innate criticism of her faith, and how she wished more than anything to show him that devotion was not a dirty word. How God had given him music, and how his love of music superseded all other love in his life. Except, perhaps, for his love of her. And God, having divined both of their lives, had given her to him—had gone so far as to kill Raoul in order to give her to him.

She found she could say none of these things, though, for she was unprepared to receive another onslaught of verbal abuse. As she turned towards him, she saw that he was looking out the window, his mind deep in thought. Whether he was more overcome with fury or disappointment or remorse, she wasn't sure, but he certainly didn't have any idle mind.

As they pulled up to the church, he finally turned towards her without a word. But even in his silence, she could read his mind for once—don't betray me, he seemed to say. Christine provided an almost indiscernible nod this as she reached for the carriage door.

"I'll pray for you," she murmured before finally opening it, turning away before she could see any reaction from him.

* * *

When the service had ended, Christine made her way back outside before anyone had a chance to speak to her. There was the carriage, stationed just around the corner from the church, and she could discern Erik's shadow sitting in stillness, his golden eyes shining faintly through the windows. She went straight for the carriage, knowing full well that his eyes were trained on her with every step she took.

"Did anyone recognize you?" he demanded as she opened the door to the carriage, though she waited to close the door behind her to begin speaking coolly.

"No. I sat in the back," she told him simply, turning her attention out the window as she watched the church fade out of view. He seemed to relax at this, though she could still feel his eyes on her.

"Did you…Enjoy it?" he asked, and she could tell that he was testing the waters, unsure of what to ask about the quality of a church service. If there even was a quality.

"It was lovely," was all she said, allowing herself to turn and smile briefly to him. This seemed to encourage him for a moment, before inciting something akin to suspicion.

"You're not displeased with me?" he asked slowly, his eyes narrowing in inherent disbelief. Her smile faltered for a moment, and she barely saw the dread in his eyes before she replied.

"They read a line from Corinthians, and…" She wavered for a moment, but took a deep breath to garner a bit of courage before continuing on. "Well, it just reminded me of a few things." She could feel his curiosity, but knew that his pride would hinder him from ever asking what the verse was. And so, with another breath, she recalled it.

"Now if anyone has caused pain, he has caused it not to me, but in some measure—not to put it too severely—to all of you. For such a one, this punishment by the majority is enough, so you should rather turn to forgive and comfort him, or he may be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow…" She stopped, her breath catching in her throat as she stared into his eyes. Looking down at her hands, she finished rapidly. "So I beg you to reaffirm your love for him."

His focus did not shift from her for several seconds, even as she looked back out to the street. Finally, though, he let out a slow sigh and looked ahead with a slight nod. "Well, I thank you for your forgiveness."

Not another word was said as the carriage lurched on, nor did they speak as Erik helped her out of the carriage and back into the house. It wasn't until he headed towards the kitchen, Christine following obligingly behind him, when he spoke.

"I will make you some tea," he said plainly, and she merely nodded as she sat down at the kitchen table. She watched his back carefully as he filled the kettle with water, and yet no matter how closely she studied, she could not decipher his behavior. Whether he was frustrated with her for what she had said earlier, or pleased by her forgiveness, she couldn't begin to tell.

Once he had prepared the cup of tea, he brought it over and placed it in front of her, sitting down beside her carefully. She tried not to notice him watching her as she picked up the cup, taking a timid sip before setting it back down. He always seemed to think she could not see him observing her, and yet she never failed to sense it.

"What would you like for Christmas?" he asked suddenly, and her eyes shot up to meet his in surprise. She struggled for a reply for a few seconds, inwardly cursing herself for her constant loss of words throughout the day, before she mustered a reply

"I thought this was my present," she said, her brow tensing in question. Surely the trip to the church was enough—it had clearly brought him great distress to allow her to go, and she couldn't possibly demand more compensation. After all, what worldly things did she need here?

"No, you will receive a gift," he countered, his face remaining stony as he awaited her response.

"I don't want anything, though. I don't need anything," she insisted as she shook her head voraciously. A moment passed before he leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her. She took this as a cue to relax, and she picked up the teacup gingerly, taking another sip as she looked down at the tabletop.

"Would you like to go to Perros?" he asked after several seconds, and she felt her eyes widen immediately. Perros… She hadn't seen her father since before Don Juan, and she did long to visit his grave once again. There was always a feeling of serenity when she was near him, despite the mortal chasm that now separated them. But why would he willingly lead them closer to Paris? What could possibly be driving him to allow her out of this stronghold of a house, particularly after what had happened at the park? "If you would like, I will accompany you there as a gift. Unless you'd like something else," he amended as he cocked his head to the side slightly in curiosity.

"No, I would—…" she began fiercely, but she was cut off by the sound of the doorbell resonating through the house. Her eyes met his just in time to see the flash of alarm that passed across his features, but he masked it quickly.

"Stay here," he commanded, and he stood up abruptly before walking just a bit too stiffly out of the kitchen towards the front door. Unable to help herself, she flew from her chair and followed a few feet behind him. It was clear that he didn't know who was calling, and even clearer that this fact troubled him more than he could say. In his fervor, though, he didn't seem to notice her following, even as he moved to open the front door roughly, revealing a tall man standing peacefully before them.

"Nadir."


	13. Convergence

**"All that we don't know is astonishing. Even more astonishing is what passes for knowing." -Philip Roth**

"Nadir."

The remark was clipped at best, and I fought to conceal the gnawing apprehension that was consuming me. It seemed that not a day had passed since I last saw him—his mask was precisely as it once was, and his eyes held the same stony indifference that had always characterized him.

"What do you want?" he asked sharply, his eyes flashing with disdain that thinly clouded a deeper sense of anxiety. Never before had I seen him so uneasy, and it took me a moment to respond.

"I would like to come in," I said, my tone inundated with amicability. "I believe that is the etiquette for old friends." I smiled warmly, but his expression did not so much as flicker.

"You are not welcome here," he hissed in a low voice, his eyes narrowing further. Before I could utter another word, he continued on in an even deadlier tone. "I know full well why you're here, and I will not abide by it."

"I'm not sure what you mean," I replied cautiously, but I knew what was coming before he said it.

"I've known about your association with the police since the moment you came to Paris. And I will by no means allow you to come into this house and destroy what I've created."

"Who's there?"

These words brought about the most wonder within me, for the moment Erik heard them, I saw something strange invade his features. And what a beautiful sight that fleeting moment of adoration was, barely discernable in his eyes as he turned around.

With his body out of the way, I saw Christine for the first time, standing in the front hall with a bewildered expression on her face. She looked vastly different from when I saw her during Don Juan. She had been overcome with stress at that time, and was frantic with worry at every moment, but a different woman stood before me at this moment. She was paler than she had been, and her eyes looked tired; it was in her frail wrists that I could tell she had become thinner. And yet, there was a newfound wisdom that graced her features, which made me nearly forget how gaunt she looked.

"My name is Nadir," I said quickly, pushing aside all thoughts of her appearance. Erik turned back and glared at me, but I continued before he could object. "I am a friend of Erik's."

Rather than continue to throw his maligning gaze at me, Erik turned to Christine to gauge her reaction. I couldn't have been luckier, for rather than dwelling in hesitation, her face lit up. Perhaps she rejoiced in the fact that Erik had a friend, even if he would never admit to it. I was even more fortunate that the moment Erik saw her elation, he couldn't bear to say anything otherwise.

Suddenly, she was rushing towards us, and Erik stepped out of the way just as Christine held out her hand to me, her eyes bright with glowing encouragement. I wished to keep my eyes on Erik, but I resisted that urge and met her gaze.

"Welcome to our home." I took her hand slowly, suddenly watching her every move in disbelief. My eyes shifted back to Erik, and I saw him register those words—our home—and he reluctantly opened the door further, allowing me to enter.

"Why don't you two go to the library so that you can catch up? I'll prepare some tea," she offered, closing the door once I had stepped in. Was she always this obliging, or was she just pleased to have someone else in the house?

"It's always tea," I heard Erik mutter, and I barely caught Christine's smile falter minutely before she bounded off for the kitchen.

The moment she was out of sight, Erik's eyes met mine once more with smoldering irritation. "You dare to use my wife in order to come into this house? You dare to take advantage of her good nature?"

I didn't hear, though, for my mind had halted on his first words. "Your wife?" I couldn't conceal my shock, and he didn't pretend to overlook it.

"Come," he said crisply, not bothering to indicate a direction before beginning off down a hallway contrary to where Christine had gone. We walked in silence, and the sound of our footsteps echoing throughout the space made my trepidation mount. The instant we entered the room and the door clicked behind us, he was speaking once again in that low, animalistic tone.

"If you upset her in any way, I will end you. Her presence is the only reason I haven't done so already, and I will not have you troubling her." With that, he turned and stalked over to a chair, sitting down moodily without offering me a seat. Nevertheless, I swallowed hard and followed him, sinking down into a seat across from him.

"You're married…" I said after a moment, struggling to maintain eye contact as he stared at me challengingly.

"I am," he snapped without apology, clearly prepared for any misdirected word I might say that would give him an excuse to pounce.

"Forgive me for being candid," I began nevertheless, prepared for an interruption that I did not receive. "But did she consent to this union?" The double-meaning was evident, but he did not falter.

"Is that such a shock, that she could love me?" he contested, cocking an eyebrow in blatant opposition. He was prodding, waiting patiently for me to make some mistake, but I would not fold so easily.

"Does she?" I dared in return, primed for his subtle backlash. I could see the vehemence in his limbs as they stiffened, his hands gripping the arms of the chair heatedly. I remained calm, though, fully aware that the success of this conversation was fully dependent on my reactions. Therefore, I remained stoically still, blocking any negative judgments towards him that were brewing within me.

He maintained his threatening stance for several moments, watching me with discerning eyes until he finally leaned back in the chair in some kind of petulant defeat, crossing his arms. This worried me more, for when he became childish, he didn't throw tantrums—he found someone to murder. Still, I held my ground.

"So I take it the marriage was less than traditional," I offered diplomatically, hoping that my serenity would pacify him. Rather, he laughed cynically, not bothering to hide the malice lacing it.

"We're truly married, if that's what you're asking. It's a proper union," he spat, watching me with some kind of twisted pleasure. His grin only widened when he saw my breath catch at his words, and concern flood my features.

"A true union?" I asked in disbelief, the words painfully articulated. Images that I dared not see crossed my mind, and I almost shuddered to even consider such things. The thought of Erik violating the young girl was inconceivable, unless of course Christine had somehow consented. But then, how could she consent after what had occurred with Raoul? With these thoughts racing through my mind, I saw his smirk indeed fall without a pause, and his expression became unreadable.

"No," he said finally, looking towards the fireplace that was softly crackling. "I would not do that to her." It wasn't sorrow or regret that played behind his eyes, but something different that I could not identify.

I didn't have much of a chance to speculate, though, for Christine had entered the room with a tray of tea. She deftly moved towards the table that separated Erik and I and set down the tea tray, before handing me a cup and saucer.

"I made his Russian for you. I assumed that if you were old friends, you might share his love of bitter tea," she said genially. "But if not, I brought another cup with something milder." She motioned to another cup and saucer, and I smiled to her warmly.

"The Russian is perfect," I told her, my eyes flickering to Erik, who was watching her with a shaded reverence which he hid the moment she turned to hand him his tea. He murmured a small word of thanks, which she looked almost surprised at. Nevertheless, once she had served us both, she made a move to leave.

"No, please," I said quickly, reaching out a hand to signal for her to stop. "You've been the perfect hostess, Mademoiselle," I began, but Erik cut me short.

"Madame," he corrected plainly, his lips pursing at the mistake. Yes of course, she was married now…

"My apologies—Madame. Please come and sit with us."

She looked confused for a moment, but then finally conceded. "I'll just sit over here. I don't want to interrupt," she said politely as she moved towards a chair in the far corner, only stopping to take a book off the shelf before sitting down.

I opened my mouth to stop her once again and invite her to join us, but Erik read my impulse and interjected before I had the chance. "This is not your home," he said with the slow and deadly clarity that was so common with him. "Let her do as she pleases."

I nodded silently, though I couldn't take my eyes off of her. "She looks different." My voice had lowered to accommodate her presence, and I spoke with as much self-control as I could. I didn't want to risk riling him up, but I also knew that we couldn't remain in some passive limbo.

"She looks precisely the same as when you saw her," he growled quietly, though I saw him sneak a glance towards her, just to make sure. When he was satisfied with this glimpse, he looked back smugly without another word.

"She's pale," I replied without missing a beat, once again determined to study his every move as his features hardened defensively. "And she looks dreadfully thin. Do you give her nothing but tea?" I asked with more spite than I had intended. This evidently hit a nerve, and he looked once more to Christine, who was reading obliviously with no sign that she had heard a word we were saying.

"Erik, I'm afraid that you're killing her, keeping her indoors and not taking proper care of her," I said before I could process the words that were coming out of my mouth, and I knew immediately that they were not the right things to say. Immediately, he leaned forward in his chair, every bit of hatred he could muster directed unswervingly towards me.

"You know nothing of our life here. I do let her out. She was at church just today," he hissed, though I could read the defensive nature of his words. Though I may not have been wholly correct, there must have been some seed of truth that was resounding throughout him. "And I brought her out even after we were seen at the park. Which is invariably why you're here, I suppose." His tone was purely mocking, and I could see just how terribly he wished to lunge forward and attack me.

"I will not deny that he was the reason we found out about your whereabouts—…" I began, but he stopped me before I could carry on.

"We?" he asked, bitterness evident in his tone. "You and that Prideux and the ever-insufferable Philippe de Chagny?" He raised an eyebrow, as if to dare me to deny my affiliations. When I didn't respond, Erik leaned back in his chair and watched me with a smolderingly livid expression. "I would like you to leave, Khan."

"And I would like to speak to your wife." Wife…The word felt foreign of my tongue, but I hid my involuntary detachment. After all, despite never having consummated the union, they were still legally bound in marriage. If what Erik said was true, that is.

"Absolutely not," he replied without a second's thought, no visible sign of acquiescence in his body.

My eyes travelled to Christine, who was still enraptured with whatever she was reading. Perhaps she felt my eyes on her, for she looked up after a moment and smiled briefly before looking back down without concern.

"It's the only way I'll leave you alone," I said as my eyes travelled back to Erik, who did not take the words well. He scoffed and crossed his arms once again, looking towards the fireplace resentfully. "I've already decided, Erik," I said sternly, shaking my head. "I must hear it from her own mouth without your presence looming over her."

"It?" he challenged with eerie equanimity. "And what exactly is it?"

"I need to hear that she is here of her own accord. That you are not forcing her into a life she does not wish to live," I told him simply as I gripped my teacup a bit tighter, hoping that he would grant me this.

"Does she look miserable?" he continued, his tone void of any harsh edge. "I do not keep her in a cage, and if she had wished to run away, she would have done so already." He seemed satisfied with this answer, but I certainly was not.

"But does she refrain from running away because she is happy, or simply because she knows what you're capable of? And what you would do to her?" I asked, and the thin ice I had been walking on since I entered the house shattered beneath me.

"I would never do a thing to harm her," he roared, rising in horror as his tea slipped out of his hands, shattering on the hardwood floor in a mess of porcelain, tea, and dregs. My eyes flew to Christine, who had let out a small gasp as she stood up, tossing her book behind her on the chair. Without saying a word, she rushed over and kneeled down before us.

"Let me clean this up for you," she murmured, already picking up the porcelain and placing the pieces in her bare hand. Both Erik and I instinctively moved towards her, both assuring her that she needn't do so, but she had already stood up, an unfazed smile on her lips. "No, please, sit down. I'll go get a rag and clean this right up. Please."

She had glided out of the room before either of us could utter another word, and we both sat down in silent embarrassment.

"I will allow you to speak with her," he said, and I looked up at him quickly, taken aback by the statement. He would not meet my eyes, though, as he continued. "You will come back tomorrow. If you dare to deceive me in any way or attempt to turn her against me, I cannot guarantee your safety. And don't you dare delude yourself into thinking that I am not completely and utterly dedicated to that threat."

"I would never take your words in jest," I replied solemnly, only just realizing that I had been holding my breath. As he looked at me, it became clear without a word that my welcome in his home had worn out, and we both stood up in understanding.

It wasn't until we reached the front hall when we heard Christine's voice behind us.

"You're leaving?" she asked and we turned around to see her there, a rag hanging limp in her hand.

"I will be back tomorrow," I said graciously, all too aware of Erik's stiff presence beside me. "Thank you for allowing me into your home."

"You're always welcome," she responded, and I felt Erik tense even more, if possible. "And merry Christmas!"

I couldn't stop myself from glancing to Erik, who was conveniently refusing to look at either of us, before I looked back to her. "Thank you, my dear."

Erik wasted no time in opening the door and ushering me out without a word, exchanging no pleasantries before he closed the door behind me. I could barely discern the sound of calm voices behind the door, and when I was confident that they would not quarrel tonight, I took my leave.

I was encroaching on a world that was not mine, and I still couldn't say what my motives were, or what I truly hoped to accomplish. What a terrible place to be—I knew that I could not stand by and do nothing, if only because of my overactive conscience; yet I was painfully sensitive to the fact that Erik would have no remorse if I crossed him. But we were bound to honor the others' debts, and more importantly, he wouldn't dare disregard me if he knew it meant the loss of Christine.

I craved to know the ending, to understand how this farce would resolve; and yet, more than anything, I dreaded to know what would become of us when this twisted narrative came to a close.


	14. Little to Gain from Flight

**"All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection. So I rate us on the basis of our splendid failures to do the impossible." -William Faulkner**

"Good morning."

The fortuitous words came from behind her, and she turned around to see Erik standing in the doorframe that led into the kitchen. Despite his hallowed stillness, she smiled briefly before standing and moving to the counter.

"I made some tea," she said as she poured him a cup. He hadn't moved from the doorway when she turned around, and so she made her way towards him in order to hand it off.

"It's always tea," she remarked when he said nothing, her voice holding no malice as she watched his defenses soften. Without another word, she moved back to the table and sat down once again, taking a sip of from her teacup without hesitation.

"You've already eaten?" he asked after a moment, following her to the table and seating himself across from her.

"I have," Christine replied simply as she ran a finger over the gilded rim of the cup. "Would you like something?"

"No," he replied without a moment's uncertainty. For a second they watched each other, until finally Christine could do nothing but avert her eyes. She stared down into the remnants of tea that remained at the bottom of her cup, trying to push away the discomfort inherent in being watched.

"What am I to say?" she said, utterly unable to handle the deafening silence. When he didn't respond, she forced her eyes to drift up to his. In an instant, it was clear that he understood her meaning, even as he followed her example and looked down at the table to avoid her gaze.

"It is your choice," he told her plainly. When she didn't respond after a few moments, he looked back up, his face blank. "It is not my place to force you into saying things you don't mean."

There was an unmistakably melancholic tone to his words, but she did not allow herself to read into his meaning. There was a gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach, though, something telling her to reassure him. But of what? How could she reassure him of her fealty when she wasn't quite sure of it herself?

He saw this, though, and a hint of a smile played in his eyes. It was the kind of smile that could easily bring a person to tears, though she quelled that instinct with all of her power. "You needn't say anything to brighten my spirits, Christine."

They resigned to sipping tea, only looking at one another during passing glances around the room. And all the while, they pretended they weren't waiting on edge for that doorbell ring, which did indeed come. Their eyes finally met, but Erik was the first to solemnly rise.

"Shall we?" he asked, and she stood quietly, her heart already beating at an incomprehensible speed. If he saw her shaking, he did not show it. Instead, he gave her a nod that held a distinct sense of finality, before he moved out of the kitchen towards the front door. She followed wordlessly, all the while clasping her hands in front of her in hopes of concealing her tremors.

Somehow, as Erik opened the door, something about Nadir's presence seemed the calm her, though. His kind eyes caught hers without a moment's pause, and she let out a soft sigh—this man wasn't remotely sinister. Indeed, there was something reassuring about him, and she couldn't help but to smile as their eyes met.

"Monsieur Khan," she breathed, and she saw Erik stiffen as she moved to meet them.

"Please—Nadir," he insisted as he took a few steps into the house. Erik was about to close the door behind him when Nadir held up a hand. "I was hoping your wife and I could take a walk. Unless it's too cold," he said, looking from Erik to Christine, the comforting smile still bright on his face.

Her eyes flickered to Erik, who she could see was barely restraining his desire to deny this request. He gave a small nod of assent, though, before muttering, "I will get your coat."

As he stalked away towards the hall closet, she found herself alone with Nadir, and utterly bewildered as to what she should say to him. He did not seem uncomfortable with the silence, nor did he have qualms about observing her curiously as they waited; nevertheless, it was only a few seconds before she had to look away, unable to take his scrutiny. Thankfully, Erik came back only a moment later, coat in hand.

He didn't look at Nadir as he helped her don the coat, and she could feel the uneasiness emanating from his form. Even so, they held eye contact for a few beats, all but ignoring their guest's discerning gaze.

"Have a nice walk," he said finally, his words calculated. With nothing to say, she merely nodded and turned to Nadir, who led them out onto the drive. As they made their way down the gravel path, she couldn't help turning to glance back at the door of the house, but it was firmly shut.

With a deep breath, she turned back ahead as her eyes scanned the area. She had never walked this far from the house—they had driven to the park and the church, after all. It was breathtaking, really. The trees were incomprehensibly tall, their sturdy spires towering above them protectively. The temperature had been hovering above freezing during the day, but a thin layer of snow from earlier in the morning dusted the ground.

"Did you have a nice evening?" His voice pulled her out of her reverie, and she looked at him suddenly in apparent surprise.

"Quite uneventful," she said after a moment's hesitation. Erik hadn't instructed her on how much she should tell him, although the previous night had indeed been uneventful. They had barely spoken after the departure of his guest, both making believe that the visit had never occurred, and that there would be no consequences of his call. But would she tell him of the less savory events? About the church incident, or his ever-flaring temper? Would she tell him about the dreams?

"What do you do with your time here?" The question once again caught her off-guard, and she couldn't help but feel like a child being interrogated. But then again, wasn't that precisely what she was?

"We read…" It sounded so meek, and she took a breath before she continued, hoping to garner some measure of fitful certainty. "We went to a park a while ago." Which had gone so well. "We take walks." Always within close proximity of the house. "We make music." Yes, that was the first truly genuine thing that came out of her mouth, and she even smiled at the evocative thought. "I am sometimes astounded at how much music we make." Another truth.

He didn't respond for a few moments, though he did survey her carefully. Part of her wished to ask him to stop, to tell him that she didn't like being watched. But so much more of her knew that this man meant no harm, and was there for her sake. Or so she hoped. She looked ahead deliberately, though, watching as the sun peaked out from behind the trees, causing her to squint and shield her eyes from its brightness.

"Is he kind to you?" he continued, finally looking back ahead, clearly aware of her discomfort.

Christine wasn't sure how to answer such a question. He never meant to be unkind, except perhaps with Raoul. The thought of him brought a dull pang of grief to her heart, but she had long since learned to push such thoughts back into the recesses of her soul, unable to face them fully anymore. Without having fully formed her response, she found herself already speaking, unaware of the words she was about to say.

"He affords me as much kindness as he can." The response seemed insufficient, but it was all she could muster. Nevertheless, she felt Nadir stop beside her, and she halted as well as she turned to look at him. His comforting gaze had been replaced by one of concern, and she felt her apprehension mount once again.

"Are you here by choice?" he demanded, and his directness gave her a start. All she could do for several moments was stare at him, her mouth slightly agape as she tried to organize her thoughts.

"Do you mean to take me away?" she countered, the words numb on her tongue. The very thought was absurd, but then, the very thought of her past and situation with Erik was far more than absurd. It was nonsensical, what with their marriage and faux life since the night of Don Juan. Still, the idea of leaving made her throat catch in dismay.

"Do you want to be taken away?" he pressed on, and she suddenly felt the desire to flee back to the house in order to evade the question. What she should want and what she wanted presently did not coincide, and she knew that all too well. She was meant to beg Nadir to take her away, to recount the night of Don Juan, and how Erik forced her into marriage, and how he has kept her locked up in the house since. But such words did not form in her throat.

And all at once, it came to her. She knew precisely why she couldn't say these things to Nadir. "It would kill Erik," she said slowly, as if testing the words on her tongue. They both knew it was true, and yet Nadir's hard gaze forced her to meet his eyes.

"What do you want?" he said with emblazoned force that nearly took her breath away. This was the moment where she could escape a life with Erik forever. But then, at her deepest core, she knew that such a thing was unfathomable. Acutely conscious of his eye contact and incapable of maintaining it, she looked down at the gravel with a low sigh.

"It would probably kill me, too."

He was silent then, and only watched her as the seconds ticked by. Suddenly, the sound of the wind brushing through those enormous trees was deafening, and she wished nothing more than for him to speak. If she had known the words that would come out of his mouth, though, she would have taken such a desire back.

"You know that he murdered Raoul."

Her expression was deadened in an instant, and she found herself staring dumbly at the ground as the soft wind continued to assault her ears. Finally, with painful slowness, she lifted her head and looked at him with anesthetized eyes. It was not difficult to keep his gaze, now, and she wasn't surprised when he finally had to avert his eyes from discomfort.

Without another word, they turned and began back towards the house, though she could not shake the numbness that weighed on her senses and pulled at her limbs. For wasn't that what it all came down to? That Erik had killed Raoul? And yet something inside of her was telling her to stay, even while it tore her apart knowing what he had done. And that was precisely the never-ending uncertainty that plagued her, day in and day out.

"I presume that you did not willingly marry him?" The question barely sparked her senses, but she did not turn to him to respond as they strode on.

"No," she replied after several seconds, her voice muted and dull as she stared down at the footsteps in the snow that they had made.

"You will forgive me for asking," he began, clearly observant of her resounding hopelessness. "But did he ever violate you in any way?" The question was the epitome of hesitation, but she knew why he had asked, why he had to ask.

She considered it for a moment, and she could sense his increasing alarm as each second passed by in silence.

"No," she repeated, and from her peripheries, she saw him visibly relax. And with that, they refrained from speech until they made it to the front door, where he stopped her.

"Would you allow me to come and see you periodically?" he asked tentatively, yet with exquisite tact. She could see that he was concerned about what her answer might be—that he may have crossed some irrevocable line and lost her trust. In order to reassure him, though, she let a tired smile come to her lips before she responded.

"I would love that."

* * *

When we entered the house, Erik was nowhere to be found. In fact, it wasn't until Christine had silently retreated into some unknown corner of her home, leaving me alone in the front hall, when Erik met me. Immediately, I could feel him eyeing me suspiciously as he scanned the front hall.

"Where is Christine?" he said in a deadly low tone as he approached me threateningly. I only held up my hands defensively, though, as I shook my head.

"She's in the house." At this, Erik seemed satisfied, though he did not stop as he moved to open the door. I only stared at him expectantly, but when Erik said nothing, I willingly prompted him. "Do you want to know what she said?"

"I fear you will tell me, regardless of what I want," Erik replied unenthusiastically, making no attempt to hide his weariness. Yes, it was clear he wanted me out of his home, but I had to linger for a few seconds longer.

"She won't leave," I remarked easily, though there was the barest hint of caution in my words.

He didn't seem surprised at this, and even pursed his lips disdainfully. "And I'm confident that you begged her to, insisting that I was some deranged maniac," Erik respond dryly, his hand clenching the doorknob with impatience.

"Erik, don't pretend that your actions have been honorable," I contended with goaded adamancy, but he merely scoffed.

"When has honor ever bothered me?" Erik bit back, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly behind his mask. "All that matters is that she will stay." I could read his thinly veiled attempt at nonchalance and even more so, his underlying relief.

Knowing that my welcome was quickly waning, I continued on. "She's given me permission to come visit," I said resolutely, studying him closely for his reaction. He hid it cleverly, though, and spat a retort back at me.

"And why would you do that?" His defenses had risen and his muscles had tensed, but I pushed forward nonetheless.

"I won't leave you alone until I'm sure beyond a doubt that this is her choice," I reasoned, though I had barely gotten the words out of my mouth before Erik had begun to speak heatedly, a warning flashing across his eyes.

"She told you it was," he argued, and I could just barely read the questioning look in his eyes. Why must you continue threatening to ruin me? he seemed to say. Why can't you leave me to my twisted happiness?

"Reasonable doubt, my friend."


	15. My Erstwhile Dear

**"At the center of your being you have the answer; you know who you are and you know what you want." -Lao Tzu**

You know that he murdered Raoul.

The words resounded through her mind with throbbing purity, and time passed meaninglessly as she sat in her room, encompassed in a still reverie. Her silent vigil had begun as soon as she parted ways with Nadir, and she thanked the heavens that Erik didn't come to find her after his friend's visit. Her mind raced without pause, but no matter how she spun it, the outcome was the same. How was she to love a man who had killed Raoul? How was she to love a man who had killed anyone?

But then again, how couldn't she? The very thought of being separated from him made her ill, for she couldn't deny her innate and inexplicable attachment to him. And when she thought back and recalled the past, she always thought first of the good he had done—of the park, and of their music, and the church, and his comforting arms after her petrifying nightmare. Of course, on further thought, the less pleasant sides of him came to mind—her nearly constant fear of his heated nature, his actions on the night of Don Juan and its aftermath, his abhorrence towards God—but they all seemed shaded by his brilliance. And more than anything, this instinct she felt to ignore his faults, no matter how grave, frightened her to her very core.

She turned her options over and over in her head, but no solution presented itself. Either she left Erik and lost a man she needed to hold on to and feared his wrath for the rest of her life, or she stayed with him, disgracing Raoul's memory and discounting any love she had for him. But then, was love something that was so exclusive? After all, she had loved her father, and yet she had also loved Raoul, and something in her loved Erik as well. Yes, each of these loves was singular, as if they were different facets of the same gem.

Still, this did not satisfy her. Too much of her mind was screaming that she had to choose one, that it was an exclusive sensation that could only be felt once. And the idea of denying her love and affection of Raoul seemed ludicrous—unless, of course it had been only affection.

Christine had already drifted out the door of her room before she realized that she had even stood up. Her senses mutely noted the darkness flooding the windows as she glided mindlessly through the house, not quite knowing what her destination would be. Her mind didn't fully grasp her movements until she had stopped in the music room, with nowhere else to go. Her eyes glided over the contents of the room and stopped on the covered piano—the piano he had never touched, always preferring to make music with his violin.

The thick layer of dust that covered the untreated wood was evident as she toed near it. Without thinking twice, she felt her hands gravitate towards it, and she gently lifted the cover to reveal the cracked ivory beneath. The instrument had not been touched in countless years—it had the air of a neglected masterwork, always yearning to be played once again.

She had slid into the piano bench before a beat had passed, and her fingers brushed weightlessly over the yellowed keys. Gently, she let the weight of her index finger push down one key, and the twang of unused strings reverberated softly through the room. It was far from perfect—the piano clearly hadn't been tuned in recent memory—and yet it brought an indisputable smile to her face. And with that small joy emanating through her veins, she let her second hand come up in order to play.

It was all muscle memory, to be truthful. It was a simple two-handed tune that her father had taught her years ago, and her fingers clumsily plucked it out. Her mind got in the way as it tried to correct her fingers and show them where they ought to land, but when she finally let her thoughts fly, her muscles found their way. Nothing extravagant or remarkable—merely an unfettered melody, easy enough for a young girl of another time to master and find pride in.

"What are you doing?"

Her fingers slipped off of the keys at the imposing words, and she turned fluidly to see Erik standing stonily in the doorframe. There was no hint of amusement in his masked features, and she stood up slowly, her eyelids drooping numbly as her deadened state returned to her once again.

"Did I ever give you permission to touch that?" he demanded, and she watched him wearily for a moment.

"No," she finally said, watching as he registered her expression. Although his appearance didn't soften, she felt a change in his tone as he held out a hand to her.

"Shall we go outside?" The words were just welcoming enough for her to grasp his hand and trek silently to the front door. Despite the hours of time that had lapsed since she had taken her walk with Nadir, she was still clad in the same coat, never having thought to take it off in her daze.

When they sat down on the front steps, Christine's eyes immediately drifted upwards to take in the velvety sky. The sliver of a moon overhead barely shrouded the stars, and they burned bright above their heads. In her peripheries, though, she could see that he was merely staring ahead into the distance, perhaps too wrapped up in other thoughts to remember the heavens above.

"It was my mother's piano," he said after a beat, and she slowly shifted her glance to look at him. "She forbade me to touch it, no matter how much I begged." It was evident from his words that this was merely the tip of the iceberg—that this story had far more depth than he would ever admit, but she did not push him. Nevertheless, she murmured an apology before looking back up at the stars with half-lidded eyes.

He was watching her. She could feel his eyes boring into her form, but she pushed back any discomfort she felt. And in truth, she was just barely beginning to accept the inevitability of always being watched by someone.

"He's said something to upset you," he understood solemnly, and she paused a moment before responding.

"Will you be cross with him if I say that he did?" she asked plainly, her face expressionless.

"I will kill him if he did," was Erik's easy response, and despite her qualms, Christine couldn't help but to smile vaguely at this.

"He merely reminded me of a few things," she said, though the thought of his acute words made the smile fade off of her lips. She saw him turn his head back to look out at the drive, and she continued to let her eyes drift across the skies with as much contentment as she could muster.

"Are you angry with me?" he pressed, and she could hear the subtle note of preemptive guilt in his voice. She knew in an instant that it was an indistinct question, for he could well be referring to his stern words regarding the piano, or something larger, something less concrete.

With this, she propped her elbows up with her knees, resting her head gently on her clasped hands as she looked hard at the ground before them. With every second, she could feel his alarm mounting, but nevertheless, it was some time before she could finally respond. "I don't know what to do, Erik," she murmured, her voice nearly carried away by the breeze.

"What did he say to you?" he urged, his voice significantly more insistent than the first time.

"Why did you kill him?" Finally, she looked at him head on, off-put by just how close he was, and constantly defying her desire to put more distance between them. Despite this, she felt that the lack of sensation from earlier in the day protected her from his relentless eyes, and she stayed mutely still. And with every moment she remained stoically motionless, she was astounded by his increasing vulnerability. How odd it was to see him cracking under her gaze, after so many years of falling prey to his severity.

"I couldn't bear the idea of losing you," he finally said, and she felt a wave of shivers crawl up her arms. "And I knew no other way to keep you from leaving." The words were weak, though he always had an innate sense of formidability that kept him from seeming feeble or pitiable.

"I would have stayed." The words were out of her mouth before she could process them, though the reverberating silence gave her ample time to consider them. But instead of keeping such thoughts in her head, she found herself voicing them almost impulsively.

"Those last few weeks were such a blur. I was caught up in so many things, and I didn't know how to stop." The words were surging from her lips and her numbness was finally lifting as she spoke dynamically at the ground. "Raoul was telling me things and I didn't know how I could not trust him, and you frightened me more than I could say, and I just wanted to be safe. And he told me the only way to be safe was with him," she continued, finally turning to look at him with disheartened eyes. "And I believed him."

She paused for an instant, but when he didn't respond, she looked back at the ground as a look of wonder crossed her features. "It's astonishing, really… It all seems so far away, and I can barely think of a thing that happened during that time." A moment elapsed in silence before Christine looked up slowly, her jaw slackening in realization. "My God…. I've met Nadir before." She turned to him, expecting the same shock, but he remained passive as he studied her. "How could I not recognize him earlier—he was working with the police…"

"Yes," he said without a falter, and her brow tensed in confusion.

"Is he truly your friend?" she pressed, her head cocking slightly as she grappled for understanding. This time, he didn't respond immediately, and she could see him turning his response over in his mind.

"That is one word for it," he sighed at last, and she could sense yet another profound story that was thinly veiled by his simple response. With this, they fell back into silence as they both turned their attention out to the swaying trees. It had only been a few minutes, though, when Christine found herself speaking once more with hesitation.

"I can't see what is right and what is wrong," she murmured as she gripped the concrete step with a bit more alacrity. "I will forget about Raoul for hours at a time, even days. And then all at once, it will all come back. And yet, each time it hits me, the pain has faded. And that seems criminal, to forget about the souls of the dead."

Instinctively, she prepared herself for a barrage of attacks from her husband, but they still did not come. Even as she looked at him, there was no irritation or anger behind his eyes, and she felt herself relax visibly.

"And then I see you, and I know what I should think and how I am meant to feel, but my mind seems to have stopped working completely, and I've started questioning if I ever loved Raoul, and if I was really destined to be here, with you, and…" She stopped her outburst dead, her eyes widening faintly as her lips wilted into a frown. "And why am I saying all of this to you?"

There was no arrogance in his face, nor did he even seem pleased with her words. Rather, he held that indecipherable expression that always perplexed her, and she resolved to let out a low sigh of contrition.

"Am I a terrible person for saying such things to you?" she questioned, her voice barely above a whisper as she stared pensively at him. He didn't break her gaze once, but shook his head almost imperceptibly.

"Christine, you are the kindest person I know." His tone did not match his unreadable features, for his words held nothing but warmth and esteem. She drank in his voice as she studied him, waiting for some indication of what she was meant to say next.

But then, ever so slowly, something else happened, something she had not quite planned. Intuitively, she felt herself leaning forward, closing the gap between them tentatively. Their resolute focus didn't break until her lips found his, and she closed her eyes with deference. As she pulled away, she felt her heart beating painfully against her chest, her breathing staggered as their eyes locked once again.

"Erik, I—…" she began, but felt herself stop short before any further utterances escaped her lips. He merely watched her, though, his eyes brimming with curiosity. Her breath caught in her throat, and she was at a loss for speech for a moment, before she finally cleared her throat and looked down at her hands uncertainly. "Can we go inside?"

She barely dared to look back up at him, but rather than disappointment or frustration, she found restful understanding in his eyes. He held out a hand and breathed, "Yes, of course," before helping her to stand. And as he moved to let go of her hand, she held tight as they entered the house, only releasing him when they wordlessly parted ways to their separate rooms.

She was acutely aware of her empty hand as she turned the doorknob and entered her room silently, and could still barely breathe as she sat down on her own bed. Something was so very different, and she wasn't sure whether to attribute it to the night, or her mental sedation from earlier in the day, or something else altogether. One thing was entirely certain, though—things were shifting, and she couldn't say what resided at the end of this path. But in her bones, she could feel the change, and somehow she knew that it was time to forgive. It was time to let go. It was time to atone.


	16. For the Farewell of It

**"For I was punished like all who destroy the past for the sake of the future." -Edgar Lee Master**

_She was dreaming. Yes, there was no question of the fact, for while the room before her was uncharacteristically detailed, something wasn't quite right. There, at the piano, sat a man clad in impeccably tailored eveningwear. He was playing her father's tune delicately on the piano, and instantly she knew it was not Erik. All at once, she seemed to notice the details that screamed Raoul—the head held high, the hair that was both blonde and brown, and the strong arms._

_"That's his mother's piano," she breathed, and he stopped immediately before turning around to face her._

_"Did you ever notice the uncanny resemblance between the two of you?" he asked easily as he swung his focus to the wal,l where the painting of Erik's mother sat. Yes, this was certainly a dream, for the painting did not reside in the music room, but rather in the room with Erik's mirror contraptions. Nevertheless, she walked up to the painting and studied the careful brushstrokes attentively. When she blinked, the painting changed, and suddenly it was a painting of herself, not his mother—she could tell without a doubt by the youth in her eyes and the rounder jaw line._

_"Don't you find that peculiar?" he pressed, and she turned back to him with a warm expression and slight smile._

_"No, I don't actually," she replied, satisfied by the brief surprise that flashed across his features. Yes, let him be surprised._

_"I haven't heard from you in so long," he said after a beat, perhaps hoping to hide his brief wonderment with a hasty question. Christine merely maintained her simple smile, though it was stained with a touch of remembrance and sorrow._

_"You haven't seen me at all, nor have I seen you" she told him, and he frowned immediately. "You're not here." The words were calculated, but peaceful in a way._

_His frown faded slightly, while a look she could only identify as triumph overtook his features. "But dreams are as real as anything else. They are in our minds, after all, and all that we know is th—…"_

_"Is that which we think," she finished for him, staggered at her own curtness. "Please don't try to steal his words—you can't trick me." When he only stared at her in open perplexity, her sharpness melted into regret._

_"You love him," he remarked slowly, though his face did not reveal any comprehension of such a statement. "Is that what this is?"_

_Her first instinct was to remind him of the ball, when he had all but handed her off to Erik. After all, hadn't he just given her permission—warm and resolute permission—to go on living with Erik? She stomped on such an impulse before it could go anywhere, though, for she recognized her foolishness instantly._

_"These are dreams," she told him, her words crisp and deliberate. She kept her delicate eyes trained on his as she took several steps closer to him. By the time she spoke again, they were face to face, not inches from one another. "You cannot try to influence me, because you are nothing but a dream. You are not Raoul de Chagny. You are nothing but a figment of my imagination."_

_"Who is to say that anything outside the confines of our minds is truly real?" he continued quickly, perhaps hoping to snuff her argument._

_"Don't you dare say such things. I remember every word he says, and do not presume that I will fail to recognize them coming out of an imposter's mouth!" At this, he took a step towards her, reaching for her hand, but she took a quick step back, her eyes wide._

_He didn't blink as he stopped in his tracks and stared back. "An imposter?" he demanded, though his forthrightness did not shake her._

_"I loved Raoul de Chagny, but I do not love you. You are a shade of him, a mere echo. And for good or bad, you will no longer haunt me. You will no longer tell me that my actions are right or wrong, and you will no longer sully Raoul's memory."_

_He gaped at her for some time after those words, and she thought for a moment that he wouldn't leave, that he would refuse her command. But finally, he turned and made his way to the door, opening it ever so slowly before looking back. She almost stopped him in that moment, for the realization of never seeing him again struck her. Yes, if he left that room, wouldn't it be the last time she would ever see an image of him, even if he was merely an imitation? He seemed to answer her thoughts before she could say a word, though._

_"You will see him today," he told her, and their eyes met one final time before he crossed the threshold of the door and closed it behind him without hesitation._

"My dear."

The words pulled her out of her dream, and she let out a small gasp of shock before her eyes focused on Erik's. He was leaning over her, and she relaxed as soon as she registered his presence. He stood back up to his full height as she rubbed at her eyes briefly, hoping to eliminate a bit of her drowsiness before she sat up a bit.

"Pardon me for intruding and waking you up so early, but we must go," he told her simply as he clasped his hands behind his back. "I've already prepared a day bag, so as soon as you're dressed, we may go."

Christine searched his eyes for some alarm, some haste that indicated that they were in danger. She found none, though, and she felt her eyebrows furrow in uncertainty. "Where are we going?" she asked as she clutched the blankets against her chest. Whether it was to shield her modesty or conceal her bubbling enthusiasm, she wasn't quite sure.

"Your Christmas present, of course," he said, and she felt her face brighten automatically. Of course Perros was a place of grief, but there was more to it than death. After all, there was such innate beauty in the act of reuniting with her father, even if he had passed through the threshold of death, and her heart raced at the thought.

"I'll meet you downstairs when you're ready," he told her, and she barely caught the hint of a smile that played on his lips as he left, the smile which revealed that bit of pride in having done something right.

As soon as the door was shut behind him, she flew out of bed and threw on a dress. It wasn't until she was tucking pins into her hair, attempting to look somewhat presentable, when the doorbell rang. She stopped immediately as she turned towards the sound in bewilderment. She only took a moment, though, before she grabbed her coat and gloves and treaded to the front hall.

"You are not welcome today," she heard Erik say callously, and she hurried her pace a little until both he and Nadir came into view near the front door.

"Ah, Christine!" Nadir called out as their eyes met. "I thought I would stop by—you don't mind, do you?"

She brought her eyes to Erik, who was clearly seething at his friend's disrespect. "It's not only my house, Monsieur," she murmured as her husband turned his gaze to her. "But I'm sure if Erik knew that I didn't mind…" she began, trailing off as she saw Erik's severe expression lessen slightly. She sent him a reassuring smile for a fleeting moment before she shifted her eyes back to Nadir. "We're going to Perros if you'd like to come. It's not the most cheerful place, but you're welcome if that doesn't bother you."

His smile dropped gradually and he turned to look at Erik abruptly, his eyebrows high in astonishment. "Perros?" he asked, and Erik nodded solemnly. She could see Nadir searching for some reaction from Erik, but when he received none, he turned back to Christine with an amiable smile and a bow of his head. "I would love to come if you would allow it."

Erik's words followed shortly after, sharp yet obliging: "The carriage is outside."

The three trekked out to the gravel drive and entered the carriage silently, Erik and Christine seated on one side while Nadir faced them on the other. To reach Perros, they nearly had to go all the way back to the Palais Garnier, but no one objected.

In fact, they were quite silent from the moment they entered the carriage, though Christine didn't fail to notice the icy glare that Erik was sending his compatriot. When she turned to glance at Nadir, she found that he was meeting his gaze rather agreeably, not showing an ounce of nervousness or unease at Erik's glower. Her focus shifted between them as the carriage lurched forward, but neither would dare break eye contact. She swallowed hard as she inched her gloved hand over to Erik's, grasping it in hers gently. She felt him break focus with Nadir as he looked down at their hands and back up at her for a moment. As their eyes met, she smiled briefly before turning to look out the window, pretending not to see Nadir's careful watch.

There was something about the way the trees passed as the carriage lumbered on, and its inherently gentle rock that always incited fatigue within her. Indeed, before they had even left Boscherville, she found herself leaning against Erik's shoulder, fast asleep. She awoke to the gentle call of her name, and she opened her eyes suddenly to find that the carriage had stopped. Her hand was still intertwined with Erik's, but she could see that they were waiting for her. After murmuring a short apology, she pulled her hand from Erik's and reached for the carriage door before her eyes finally took in their surroundings.

It had been so long since she had last been to Perros, but nothing had changed. She could see the newer graves at the far end of the graveyard, but otherwise, all was just as it had been. She searched her mind for the details of her preceding visit, but what she found made her heart sink. Of course—Erik and Raoul had both been with her on her most recent trip to Perros, though such a meeting had not been her intention. The thought brought a shiver down her spine, but she pushed it back into the recesses of her mind as she stepped out onto the cold earth and began to make her way to her father's grave without waiting for her two companions.

* * *

As we stepped out of the carriage behind her, I couldn't help but watch Erik's affectionate stare. Naturally, when he noticed that I had caught him, he replaced it with his signature stony expression and cleared his throat agitatedly.

"What has incited such a change in her?" I asked casually as we began to follow her slowly, making a point to maintain our respectful distance.

"I don't know what you could possibly be talking about," Erik snapped, his eyes remaining trained on her carefully. Meanwhile, she walked vigilantly down the pathway before them with a hand shielding her eyes from the sun, utterly lost in her own world. I didn't respond for several moments, merely observing the sight before me. When she came to a stop before her father's grave, we too stopped at a distance so as not to disturb her.

"Do you see?" I asked finally, my eyes flickering over to her. "The sun hurts her eyes."

"And what of it?" Erik asked sharply, his lips tightening as he failed to restrain his temper. "It hurts my eyes as well," he countered, and I looked at him slowly, a knowing look on my face. He scoffed, though I could see that he understood me. "Please, Daroga, you can't be insinuating that I keep her locked up in the dark, day in and day out. I thought we were beyond that."

Finally, I turned to him full on, Christine now only in my peripheries. "What can you possibly hope will transpire, Erik?" I persisted, the question perfectly genuine. "That you continue to live this pseudo-life with a wife who didn't want to marry you?" I hadn't meant to be cruel, but I could see in his eyes that the words cut him deep.

"Nadir, you are here by Christine's goodwill only. I welcome you because she does, but I will only abide by so much insolence and discourtesy," he hissed, but I shook my head slowly.

"No, I'm not only here by her goodwill," I defied, and I could feel the uncontrolled pity in my eyes. "I am here because you want to prove the validity of this sham to me. You think that if I sanction the life you've created, then the two of you shall live without trouble until the end of your days," I continued with a bit more force, which he did not appreciate.

"I don't give a damn about your approval, and you are deluding yourself if you think I do. This is not Persia, and I do not need you," he bit back, though we both knew that these words weren't completely truthful.

"You're right, Erik," I replied calmly, my eyes moving back to Christine. "This isn't Persia. And here, your actions have consequences." We were silent for several moments, but finally I let the words leave my mouth. "Philippe de Chagny is hunting you down, and until he has you in his grasp, he will not stop."

Erik's fury diminished, and I could feel the unexpected desperation in his eyes as he looked back to Christine as well. Yes, it was clear that no matter what he said, he understood the dire nature of the situation. "Can't you put him off our trail? We can travel somewhere—we can get out of France."

I shook my head gravely, for I knew it would do him no good to hide the truth. "This is not some petty grievance. He is looking for personal retribution against yourself and Christine. It's vengeance he wants, and you more than anybody should know how powerful such a desire can be." He did not deny it, and I sighed mournfully. "We will not get through this without somebodybeing scathed."

* * *

It was kind of them to give her space as she reached her father's grave, and as soon as she knelt before the gravestone, she forgot about their presences completely. It was simply her and her father, and she remained there for some time, murmuring soft words to nobody. When she finally stood to move back to them, she instantly noticed their weighty expressions which disappeared the moment they saw her watching.

It wasn't until she was nearly by their sides when Nadir finally spoke to her, his eyes gentle. "I suppose you want to see Raoul's grave?"

Despite the fact that she was looking at Nadir, the first thing she saw was snap of Erik's head as he looked towards Nadir. She blinked several times, speechless, before she looked to Erik, whose eyes were wide and sharp.

"I wasn't aware that he was buried here," she murmured, trying to keep her composure as she turned back to Nadir, whose smile had faded somewhat.

"Oh… I assumed that he was part of the reason you came." Her eyes flickered to the newly dug graves that were at a distance from them, and swallowed uncertainly.

"I would like to see it," she faltered, licking her lips restlessly. "But only if you will come with me," she amended as she looked resolutely at Erik. He seemed momentarily surprised at this, but he finally nodded once in acquiescence.

She could feel Nadir's eyes on them as she held out her hand to Erik and they walked silently towards the new row of gravestones, but she pushed any apprehension she felt behind her. No matter how kind Nadir was, this simply wasn't about him.

They walked mutely down the row, reading the names of the deceased systematically until they found it: Raoul de Chagny. There were no dates or titles on the gravestone, but rather four simple words. Nul flux sans reflux. No flux without reflux, but they both knew what it had come to mean in the French tradition.

"Every flow has its ebb," she murmured under her breath, and she felt herself involuntarily clutch his hand tighter. They didn't say another word and didn't so much as glance back at Nadir, who was standing at a distance, studying them. They remained there until the cold had penetrated her gloves and made her fingers go numb, at which point they began to make their way back to the carriage.

It struck her just how little she felt. Perhaps it was because she had expected a rush of emotion to overtake her, but instead, she felt something different—something deeper and conceivably more resounding, but it was not sharp. And furthermore, whatever that profound emotion was, she knew for a fact that it was not misery, or if it was, certainly not the misery she had once known.

"I wanted to tell you something last night," she said impulsively, her hand still wrapped in his. He looked at her for an instant, but still didn't respond. She waited for several moments, hoping for some indication that he would help her, but when she received no reply, she pressed on shakily. "After what happened," she began, only vaguely aware of Nadir's footsteps behind them. "I wanted to tell you…" She still could not find the words, and finally Erik spoke.

"What?" he implored, though that same stoniness that he always held characterized the words.

"That I love you," she said, as if testing the words on her tongue. He slowed their pace slightly, but did not stop completely as he stared at her in wonder. "I just thought I should tell you," she continued uneasily, making a point of looking down at the ground as she spoke. "What I had meant to say, that is."

When they reached the carriage, she still had not looked back at Erik to register a reaction, but she didn't miss Nadir's. It was unreservedly evident that he had heard her words, because he watched her with the utmost curiosity as they settled in. And Erik seemed to notice this expression of shock as well, for when she finally did sneak a glance, he appeared nothing short of delighted. Whether that was because of her assertion of affection, or because it had seemingly proved Nadir wrong, she wasn't quite sure.

The silence they had shared on the way there was revisited on the trip back, and Christine made a point of focusing her eyes interminably on the passing trees outside their window, even as darkness fell around them. It took a while, but eventually she began to make out the shadows of tree trunks and branches, and she a game of deciphering when they were amidst forests and when they were passing through the outskirts of towns.

The ride seemed infinitely quicker on their return, and before they knew it, the hours had flown by and they were pulling back up into the drive. But even the darkness did not hide the carriage that was parked in front of the house, nor did it conceal the brigade of silhouettes crowded around the front of the house.

"Erik," she breathed, pointing out the window in order to pull his attention to the mysterious figures. She could almost feel his heartbeat quicken, and she swallowed nervously as her eyes darted between them. It didn't help when Nadir also adopted an expression of acute dread, and she threw her focus back out the window so as not to see their worry.

"What have you done?" Erik demanded as he pulled his hand from Christine's so as not to grasp it too strongly, his hands closing into tight fists. She could see his glowing eyes flash in the darkness, and Nadir seemed to lose all footing.

"I—… I didn't—…" he stuttered as he strained his eyes in hopes of discerning their unidentifiable faces.

Briefly, she wondered why they didn't turn around and leave, but before anyone could say another word, a few of the group had migrated to the carriage as it rolled to a stop in front of the house. One of the men, who had a distinctly stern look on his face, knocked on Christine's door hard. She jumped in response, but let out a breath as she felt Erik's hand on her shoulder.

Gradually, they all exited the carriage, and Christine flew to Erik's side as the rest of the group made their way over. Policemen—no other people held themselves with such authority. And just as she made out the face of Philippe de Chagny amongst the crowd, grinning at her, she heard the crisp words of an officer:

"You are under arrest for the murder of the Viscount de Chagny and the kidnapping of Christine Daaé."


	17. Winter is Not Yet Gone

**"I found a loose string dangling from the hem of my existence. When I pulled it, the world around me began to unravel." -William Reschke**

I had been sitting in that hard chair for what seemed like hours, without so much as a word from Chagny, Prideux, Christine, or Erik. The time had passed with anguish as I recounted the events of the night, unable to erase them from the recesses of my mind.

It had all been a blur—before I could turn my head, they had tugged Erik's hands behind his back and pulled him into a brougham with metal grating on the windows. I could vaguely hear Christine calling his name, but he neither looked towards her nor struggled. I expected curses and magic tricks, or perhaps even that deadly lasso he was so very infamous for; he astounded us all, though, by being nothing but tame, and it left me utterly speechless. It wasn't until he was secure in the carriage when I saw his eyes glow out towards us. It wasn't difficult to discern who he was looking at, but she didn't seem to notice his determined and careful gaze from across the drive.

Rather, she had rushed to Philippe, and without a word of preamble, had fallen to her knees and reached for his hands desperately. She had barely touched his fingers before he pulled them away in disgust, though, and I could  _feel_  Erik's eyes flash behind us.

"Please, you cannot, please," she was crying to him, her words almost unintelligible. Philippe almost laughed at this as he kneeled down to her level, brushing a finger against her cheek.

"Do not fret, my dear," he said, his voice laced with condescension and sugared loathing. "You aren't going to jail. But I'm afraid you'll have to come with us tonight. Formalities—you understand." When she only let out a longer sob, he put a deceptively warm hand on her shoulder as his voice took on an even smoother, deadlier timbre. "You mustn't worry, Christine. You'll be able to come back before the trial."

And then, without a word, they led her off to a different brougham. I turned to watch her until she was securely in the carriage, rooted to my spot and unable to move. When I finally looked to Erik, I could see his eyes on me; even from a distance, I could see his uncertainty, his desperation, and more than anything, his resignation. And all at once it seemed to make sense—if he were to fight, the punishment would fall on Christine. After all, it was clear that while she was being detained, it was not for a crime—at least at the moment. And were he to do something rash, Philippe may not be so accommodating.

Shortly after, both of their carriages rolled away and I saw nothing more of them. Philippe had seemingly disappeared by the time I was led to a third brougham and driven to the police headquarters in Rouen, where I had been sitting since. Anxiety flooded my veins, for all I could think of was where Christine and Erik might be. Surely not together, yet I hoped with all my soul that they were safe.

I jumped when Philippe finally entered the room, and immediately flew out of my chair to meet him.

"Anxious, I see," he said with a wry laugh, ignoring my rush as he gradually made his way to the chair across the table from me. Clenching my jaw in hopes of restraining any exclamations, I sat down as well and stared hard at him.

"Where is Prideux?" was the first question I asked, to which he cocked an eyebrow in interest.

"Convenient question." Perhaps he wanted me to object, but I merely stared at him until he finally conceded with a reply. "He is safely in Paris, as it were. I decided to take things into my own hands, but I assure you that I'll inform him tomorrow morning. I figured I'd take the bull by the horns, if you understand my meaning." A wry smile played on his lips, and I clenched my fists in my lap in some semblance of control. It only took a moment for me to muster my courage, though, and I narrowed my eyes at him.

"And why are you on the other side of the table from me? I am a part of this investigation just as much as you are, if not more. There seems to be no need to question  _me_." It was a bluff, and there was no avoiding that fact, but I was stubbornly unrelenting.

"There isn't?" he asked with artificial curiosity, pursing his lips in enjoyment as he folded his hands on the tabletop. "My dear Khan, you are so very fortunate that I am not planning on indicting you. Withholding information, hindering justice, aiding a murderer—…" he droned, and I cut him off immediately.

" _Suspected_  murderer." Another useless phrase, yet I said the words defiantly as ever.

He merely looked at me, that malevolent smile resting easily on his lips. "Now, you know that isn't true." I didn't reply, my jaw set boldly as I sent cold stares at him. "In fact, there seems to be a great deal that you know about our little felon," he continued, tapping his fingers idly. "Which is why I shall gladly utilize you to my advantage in this trial, rather than having you thrown in jail. I would just  _hate_  for all your usefulness to be squandered!"

His genuine thrill at this was nearly enough to jolt me from my seat, but I affected calmness in hopes of irking him. It did no good, though, for he merely leaned forward in his chair, his eyes glittering in delight. "I should really thank you. Without you, I would still be in Paris, twiddling my thumbs all day long."

"What are you planning on doing?" I spat out, willing myself to remain unbothered by his antics.

"Well," he sighed, leaning back in his chair thoughtfully. "Ultimately, I'd like to have your masked friend convicted of murder. I'm not sure how familiar you are with French law, Monsieur, but here, all people convicted of murder are sentenced to death." He paused, his smile widening as he did. "By beheading."

He wanted me to flinch, but I did not. Naturally, he knew nothing of Persian laws, where those sentenced to death suffered far more gruesome ends. Rather, my lips tightened and my eyes hardened as I spoke. "And Christine?"

"Christine…" His gaze shifted as he considered her for a moment, before his eyes landed back on me, his smile gone. "I'd like to make her suffer."

* * *

If she had thought the recent events of her life had been terrifying, this put such a notion to rest. She had spent the entirety of the carriage ride choking on tears, utterly unable to breathe under the duress. She yelled to the driver, but he pretended not to hear. She even pulled at the carriage doors, yet found them conveniently bolted against escape. Eventually, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of an old building, and the door was opened by a man who helped her out. She pleaded for information and for mercy, but he too ignored her cries and led her silently into the building.

It wasn't until she was left alone in a small holding room when panic truly set in. She pulled at the doorknob, yelling for Erik, but nobody came. She paced the room, sat stiffly in the chair, dug her fingernails into the wooden table. She wasn't quite sure how long she remained in the room alone, but she knew several hours had passed before the door opened and the face of Philippe de Chagny appeared before her. Jumping up from her seat, she stared at him wildly, waiting for him to give her some explanation.

"So restless…Just like Khan…" he murmured, and Christine merely blinked as Philippe moved and sat down. He didn't say another word for several minutes, even as she sat down across from him and watched him with wide, terror-filled eyes.

"Whose name were you calling?" he finally asked, his words laced with genuine curiosity. These were not the words she had expected, and she grasped for a response.

"I haven't… I don't know what—…" she stuttered, her voice shattered from tears.

"Erik…" he murmured under his breath, and she felt her throat tighten once again. She quelled her desire to cry, though, and held her head high in the face of mockery. "Is that his name?"

She did not give him the satisfaction of a response, and they sat in silence as the seconds ticked by. "Where is he?" she said finally, her words clipped as she began to muster false courage.

He was clearly unpleased at her show of boldness, and his sly look disappeared, only to be replaced by dull revulsion. "He's in prison," he told her bluntly, throwing the words away as if they were meaningless. She flinched at the words and she could see him gain a bit of his footing once more, visibly contented to have won a reaction from her.

"Then put me in prison with him," she told him, swallowing hard to reign in her emotion. But no matter what she did, she knew more than anything that she did not have hard eyes. She could not strike fear into someone by merely glaring at them, and she had never mastered indifferent pride. No, she was and would always be a movable and feeling human being.

"That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" he told her, his words devastatingly smooth. "You see, just like Monsieur Khan, I do not plan on charging you with any crime."

Vaguely, she processed Nadir's name once again and wondered what their conversation had comprised of, but she did not have long to think on such things. "You're not the police. You don't have the authority to charge  _anyone_ ," she hissed, to which he raised his eyebrows in interest.

"Don't I?" he asked languidly, his face contorting into a veneer of concern. "I wonder why dear Erik is in prison, then…"

Her feigned bravery diminished and her heart sunk at his words. "What do you want from us?" she asked as she felt her body wilt under the pressure of his gaze. "We'll give you whatever you want—he's very wealthy—…" She was cut off by a boisterous laugh, and she felt her cheeks redden in shame.

"Money?" he challenged, his face ripe with astonishment. "What do I need with money?"

"Why are you doing this then?" she demanded as she leaned forward, her elbows digging into the table.

"Have you forgotten about my dear brother?" he asked with sugary sweetness, and she felt all former timidity drain out of her as fire sparked within her veins.

"I loved your brother, but what you're doing hasn't a thing to do with love. You couldn't care less that your brother died," she shouted as she sprung up from her chair, her limbs shaking in fury. "So tell me, Philippe—what is all this for?"

He slowly rose as well and he put his palms down on the table, his eyes situated on her stonily. "You're a harlot who's out for money and fame," he murmured in a deadly still tone, all theatricality gone. "And more than that, you sullied my family's name. All I've heard for the last year is about the scandal of Raoul de Chagny and the stage rat. And now that your deformed  _lover_  has killed him, I will never escape that shame. No matter how rich I am, no matter how powerful I am, I will be reduced to the brother of a failed and  _rejected_  devotee." He looked her up and down once, a sneer forming on his lips. "Dishonor runs deep, and now my family will be forever cheapened by the likes of  _you_."

More than anything, she was shocked at her numbness as he spoke, and of her ease of speech when she finally responded. "Then why aren't you indicting me?" she asked him simply, her hands dropping to her sides, deadened. "If it's about me, then let Erik go."

"Ah, but you see, I want this to run as deep for you as it does for me," he told her with sudden pleasantness as he sat back down, folding his hands in his lap. "And prison is not what would pain you the most." He cocked his head to the side slightly as he observed her, but she wouldn't allow an expression to cross her features. "Honor is what I love most, and you took that away. So I'm going to take away what  _you_  love most."

* * *

It was on the cusp between night and day when she was finally sent back to the Boscherville house in her appointed carriage. Christine arrived alone, and she felt herself almost magnetically drawn to the front step of the house, where she seated herself torpidly. A thin dusting of snow had fallen since she had last been outside, but she didn't mind the extra chill.

The inundation of emotion was draining, and yet she still felt as if her senses were heightened as she sat on the ice-cold concrete, remembering what it was like to reside here next to Erik. And somehow, the information in her coat pocket about the court summons seemed to be the farthest thing from her mind. All she could do was painstakingly recall the details of his presence, and inevitably be disappointed by her faulty and crude memory.

It was just as she had given up on her attempts at recollection when another carriage pulled up and Nadir was led out, looking just as disheveled as she did. The stars were already disappearing as he moved towards her, and she struggled to keep them in sight as he sat next to her.

"What's going on, Nadir," she asked, although it was more of a statement than a question. She could see him looking towards her, but she did not avert her eyes from the graying stars.

"Philippe has asked me to stay with you here until the trial begins. They can't hold us since we're not being accused of anything, but he wants to make sure you don't go anywhere." He paused, his eyes following hers up to the skies. "I tried to tell him that you wouldn't dream of leaving, but…" He drifted off at this before a low sigh escaped his lips.

"We were in the graveyard only yesterday," she breathed, tightening her lips to quell her swelling emotions. "And we were only at the station through the night, and yet I believe an eternity has passed since I last saw him…"

"You're quite the poet," he told her, his words packed with forced ease. The tears she had restrained since arriving at the police station finally began to spill onto her cheeks, and she was grateful that her companion pretended not to notice.

"Philippe says they're rushing the trial—I have a sick feeling he's hoping to convict Erik before Prideux can find a foothold in the case," Nadir continued, perhaps hoping that the logistics of the coming days would be less disheartening. The thought of an unfair trial only made Christine's stomach sink more, though.

"He's doing it because of me," she told him almost inaudibly, and she saw him turn abruptly to her, his face twisted in confusion.

"You mustn't blame yourself, Christine—he's doing it because of his brother. A Frenchman's need for revenge is insatiable…" he muttered anecdotally, but she continued on without a pause.

"It has nothing to do with Raoul," she told him, brief resentment replacing her sorrow. "I've impacted his family name negatively because of my relationship with Raoul. And while he doesn't love his brother, he seems to have an abundant love of his reputation and pride," she finished bitterly, her jaw clenching involuntarily.

"Christine, he's merely trying to get under your skin by saying such things," Nadir assured her, though she didn't have to look at him to feel the pity flooding his eyes. "Erik made a rash decision and now he must suffer the consequences for it."

These apparently had not been the right words, for she immediately hardened as her eyebrows knitted in grief.

"I'm going to be his defense," Nadir amended after a moment, and Christine finally turned to look at him with wide eyes. "Erik's, that is."

"Does Philippe know that?" she asked in a hushed whisper, unable to hide the small delight she found in his statement. If anyone was to defend Erik, surely there could not be a better candidate than Nadir.

"Of course not," he replied with a smile—the first one that appeared authentic. "He wants to use my familiarity with Erik to help in his prosecution, but if I assume the role of Erik's defense, I'm afraid Philippe won't be able to utilize my knowledge. Too bad." His smile turned sly, and Christine let out a small laugh of relief. It was fleeting, though, for thoughts of the empty house behind her flooded her thoughts almost instantaneously. That monolith of a home seemed to radiate loneliness, and she let out a small and dejected breath as she imagined the hours to come.

"I don't know what to do. How do I stay in this house?" she murmured under her breath, her voice somehow still despite her recent tears.

"We'll make it," he told her, his focus shifting to the lambent sunlight that was beginning to peak through the trees. "He'll make it." She let out a breath at this, and she felt her heart settle within her chest.

"Nadir," she remarked slowly, and he turned to her in curiosity. Without averting her eyes, she leaned her chin on the palms of her hands as the last remnants of stars disappeared into the lightening sky. "Have I ever told you the story of Virgo?"


	18. Though I Fall

" **As the demon raised its arms to deliver the first blow, it said, "In time you will remember even this moment with fondness."" -Neil Gaiman**

There was no time for anxiety regarding the trial, for it came before the week was out. It didn't seem to matter how prompt the proceedings were, though, for time dragged on endlessly as each day passed by. Every night was a dreamless haze, and the days were drowned in an abandoned fog that Christine could not escape.

But in truth, she had no interest in escaping her misery. Even when she saw Nadir in the house, she didn't seem to truly see him, and merely walked on without a word. Hours upon hours were spent outside, staring down the drive as he prepared a defense, and when the day finally came to face the trial, she barely felt a part of her body. Her limbs felt frozen and numb at her sides as she sat motionless in the carriage across from Nadir. Her expression was hollow and her mind was blank, a mere shell of what it had been.

"You will not be allowed to hear the opening statements." Nadir's words barely caught her attention, but she let her eyes drift towards him indolently in vague questioning. "You are a key witness, and they will not let you into the room until you testify." She opened her mouth to object, but he caught her before she could. "I have convinced the judge to make you the first witness so that you will not be kept in the dark."

"Thank you," she said in a soft tone, her focus moving back out the window to the trees that passed by the carriage. She had so many questions—what would she be asked, would she be able to speak to Erik, who would be in the room, what was Nadir's defense?  _What was going to happen in the end_? But her voice seemed caught in her throat, and she could not bring herself to utter one word.

"It is the Cour d'Assises," he continued without prompting, but she did not look at him. "There will be a jury of nine people, and three magistrates." She only vaguely knew what this meant, but she asked for no clarification.

"Philippe will be acting as the prosecution," he went on—more words she did not understand. "When he found out that I had taken on the role of the defense, he insisted." Finally, she looked at him once again and he seemed to read her lack of comprehension.

"He will be the one asking you the questions and making statements to the judge and jury." She still did not respond, and perhaps due to his discomfort, he wore on. "He studied law when he was in school—but that was over a decade ago. He'll barely know an objection from an opening statement."

Thankfully, he seemed to find no need to inform her what those words meant, and as the carriage rolled to a stop before the courthouse, she knew she was going in blind. But frankly, she was too terrified to know the truth of what was to come, and preferred blissful ignorance to unyielding truth.

They were not allowed to enter the courtroom when they first arrived, which seemed unbearable at first. But what was even harder was when Nadir was summoned to make opening remarks, leaving Christine sitting in a hard chair just outside the door, a bailiff standing stiffly beside her. She could  _feel_  him watching her, more than anything else, but she kept her eyes stoically ahead as the minutes ticked by.

It was only when the bailiff stood her up, readying her to enter the courtroom, when her heart began to race and doubts whirred through her mind. Nadir hadn't said a word about what she was meant to say and what she should neglect to remember. And what would happen if Philippe came after her with questions she dreaded answering? But somehow, when the thick wooden doors opened and she saw the barrage of people before her, her mind went blank and she walked in silence to the front of the courtroom.

"May I present Christine Daaé." It was Philippe's pitiless voice, sugared and styled to appear empathetic, and she felt a chill run down her spine as she was led to the stand. "You must be sworn in, Ms. Daaé—to bind your conscious," he told her smoothly. "You understand."

But she did not—she did not understand one word that had been said all day, and numbness took over again as she sat down on the stand. She looked out over the sea of spectators and jurors that stared at her with judging eyes and felt her mouth run dry. Nevertheless, she merely blocked out their looming gazes as she laid her hand flat on the Bible and swore her oath.

She felt his presence before she saw him, and it sparked life within her. It was inexplicable, but as she pulled her hand away, her eyes fell quite suddenly and easily upon Erik. He was seated next to Nadir at a wooden table before her, his hands bound by shackles and his eyes weary with sleeplessness. Despite his appearance, she felt her lips spread in a smile, and somehow he managed to muster a small one in return.

"Miss Daaé?" Philippe's sharp voice pulled her out of her reverie, and her focus shifted abruptly to the Count's cold form.

"I'm sorry?" she breathed, her voice small from her lack of speech over the course of the week.

"I asked what you would prefer to be called. As I told the jury, the Viscountess de Chagny is certainly inappropriate, given my brother's  _senseless_  killing." The extra descriptor in the sentence did not go unnoticed by her, but no one else seemed to mind.

"And I know you have married since the event, but I was never informed of your husband's surname." She could tell that he was performing for the jury, who were already sitting on the edges of their seats with intent eyes.

"But then, given the nature of your marriage, I wondered if you wouldn't _rather_  be called Miss Daaé." She could see out of the corner of her eye that Erik remained intentionally still and expressionless at this comment. In turn, she let a warm smile, so characteristic of her, wash over her face.

"Christine would be just fine," she remarked amicably, hoping that it would throw him off guard. It did not, though, and he merely smiled back.

"Do you renounce your husband's name, then?" Philippe asked, cocking his head as he turned towards the jury casually.

"Objection, your honor—that is immaterial," Nadir said simply, and for the first time, she looked up to the judge. He was getting on in years, but the traditional powdered wig on his head made him appear decades older than he probably was.

"State your purpose, Monsieur de Chagny, or move on," he replied dryly, his eyebrows rising lazily as he pursed his lips.

"Merely an indication of the character of the accused. I barely call a marriage under the pretense of kidnap honorable, after all." There was a small murmur amongst the jurors, and she felt herself lean forward anxiously.

"It wasn't under the pretense of—" she began, but Nadir cleared his throat to stop her.

"Do you have something you'd like to add?" Philippe asked Nadir, sudden irritability evident in his words.

"I just wanted to remind the witness that she needn't say anything if a question hasn't been asked," he replied pleasantly, and her eyes drifted momentarily to Erik. He seemed to be watching Philippe too closely to notice, though, and she followed suit.

"Thank you, Monsieur Khan," Philippe said with a small and bitter bow of his head, turning back to Christine.

"Could you tell us your current relation to the accused, if anyone missed it?" he asked simply, his face surprisingly void of malice.

"I am his wife," she said proudly, aware of the uneasy looks the jurors exchanged.

"And, to further reiterate, what was your relationship to the deceased?" That detached word,  _deceased_ , shook her, and she felt herself stop momentarily.

"I was his fiancée." More murmurs and glances that she had to block out.

"When did you first meet the accused?" he asked, clasping his hands behind his back diplomatically.

"His name is Erik," she murmured, and she could feel Erik turn to look at her slowly. "I met him when I worked in the ballet corps at the Palais Garnier." Her voice was gaining strength, but she could tell that it didn't seem to bother Philippe a bit.

"And in what capacity, precisely, did you meet him?" His words were just slightly pressed, and she could feel that he was searching for a particular answer.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she replied, her eyebrow furrowing in honest uncertainty.

"What was his role at the Palais Garnier?" he redirected, and Christine glanced at Erik for a fleeting moment before looking back to Philippe.

"He looked out for the well-being of the Opera House," she replied tentatively, to which she heard the jurors murmur amongst themselves.

"He did not  _terrorize_  the employees or the audience at any point during his tenure at the Palais Garnier?"

"Objection," Nadir called out, rising from his seat to punctuate his statement. "Calls for a conclusion—he's asking for an opinion, not a fact."

"I believe Erik's actions can be _factually_  identified as acts of terrorism, Monsieur Khan," Philippe responded without turning around.

"Overruled," the judge responded, and Nadir sat down silently. "Please answer the question."

"I'm not sure I can," she said, finding more defiance in her words than she expected. "I cannot speak for  _all_  of the employees or every audience member that has entered that building. I can only speak to what he was to me." She could feel Nadir smile, but she made an effort to remain expressionless.

"And what was he to you?" Philippe bore on, unfazed by her statement.

"He was my teacher," she replied easily, unashamed of the fact. "He taught me everything I know. He fostered my voice and helped me in a time of great grief."

"A time of great grief, interesting," he muttered, though she knew this was not even remotely interesting to him. "Was he still  _merely_  a teacher to you on the night of your fiancée's murder?" Philippe came nearer to her now, going so far as to place a hand nonchalantly on the witness stand.

"Objection—the question is too vague for the witness to answer properly."

"Sustained," came the rusty voice of the judge, and she let out a small breath of relief. Once again, Philippe didn't seem to mind and he switched gears easily to a new subject.

"Christine, where were you on the night of Raoul's murder?" He watched her with a careful and reproachful gaze, but she refused to look away.

"I was underneath the Opera House." She chose the words carefully and deliberately, and her stare was still and focused as ever.

"And why were you there?"

"Erik brought me there after the performance of  _Don Juan_ ," she relied candidly.

"After?" he challenged, an eyebrow rising in question as a smirk began to form on his lips.

"During," she corrected, looking down to her hands.

"Were you married to him at that time?" He took a step closer to her, trying to catch her gaze. Knowing the game he was playing, she boldly looked up and met his eyes unapologetically, unwilling to let him shake her.

"No," she said tersely.

"Then why did you go with him?" he asked, his voice laced with feigned concern. The question took her off guard, and she felt herself lose a bit of her steam.

"He…He forced me to go," she admitted, though she didn't give Philippe to satisfaction of averting her gaze.

"And Raoul followed you down in order to  _save_  you, is that correct?" he dared, and she swallowed nervously.

"I…I can only assume…" she stuttered, her eyes fluttering between Philippe and Erik, who was still sitting silently, his eyes set hard on Philippe.

"Did you know that Erik had a gun on hand at the time?" Philippe challenged, and her eyes snapped back to him.

"No…" she murmured as her nerves began to race.

"Under clause 296 of the Penal Code of 1810, every murder, committed with premeditation, or with lying in wait, is denominated assassination. Do you believe that this accurately represents the events that occurred?"

"I don't know what that means…" she said almost inaudibly as her eyes shot to Nadir, who had stood up the moment he saw her fright.

"Objection—under clause 297 and 298 of the same Penal Code, to be lying in wait, the defendant had to, quite literally, be waiting for a period of time in order to kill the deceased. This clearly couldn't have happened, given that the witness was with the defendant at the time of the murder. Furthermore, premeditation would imply that the defendant had an established plan to murder the Viscount de Chagny."

"I believe you get your chance to speak after I do, Monsieur Khan," Philippe responded with deriding kindness.

"He didn't plan it," Christine exclaimed quickly, but Philippe waved his hand to silence her.

"Are you defending the man accused of kidnapping you, then?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "I will remind the jury that clause 354 of the Penal Code of 1810 states, "whoever, by fraud or violence, shall steal, or cause to be stolen, any minors; or shall spirit away, seduce or remove them, from the places where they were placed by those to whose authority or direction they had been submitted or entrusted, shall undergo the penalty of solitary imprisonment."

"He was not a seducer, he was my teacher!" she shouted, nearly jumping up in her frenzy.

"Your teacher? And where did you meet for these lessons?" Philippe asked, cocking his head to the side in seemingly genuine interest.

"Objection—the question is irrelevant, your honor." This was the first time that Nadir had sounded at all irked, but Christine was thankful for his protestation.

"The question is regarding the kidnapping accusation," Philippe snapped back, his eyes narrowing on Nadir momentarily.

"Overruled."

"In my dressing room," she said slowly, painfully aware of the scribbles coming from the jurors as they made note of her reply.

"In your dressing room?" Philippe reiterated, his eyebrows shooting up in mock surprise. "Why not one of the many practice rooms that the Opera House boasts?"

"I'm not sure," she responded, her jaw hanging slack as she began to understand where he was directing this.

"Fair enough," he said, nodding curtly. "And were you aware of the mirror mechanism that your dressing room was equipped with?"

"Yes," she said cautiously, her eyes catching those of the jurors momentarily. They looked disgusted, and some even looked over to Erik in horror before turning away in repulsion. He did not seem to notice, and instead had his eyes locked on her.

"Could you explain that to the jury?" he asked, far too pleased by her numb expression.

Christine's eyes met Nadir's for a moment, but she knew she had no choice in the matter. "It was a two-way mirror that could be opened from the other side through the use of a hidden switch."

"And on the other side of the mirror?" he asked, turning to Erik momentarily with a pleased expression. It was shocking, really, to see him so subdued—his eyes didn't so much as flash at Philippe's blatant stab. Clearly disappointed by the lack of reaction, the Count turned back to her, the triumphant expression still lingering on his features.

"A passageway that led to his home," she answered, clenching her jaw in hopes of quelling the overwhelming feeling of helplessness.

"And how many times have you stayed with him there?"

His words were unassuming, and yet she hadn't been prepared for them—she had never told anyone about her extended stays in Erik's home due to the mere impropriety of it all. Except Raoul, of course, but he was dead. She felt her jaw drop in open shock, barely able to muster a response. "How did you know that?"

"Objection—fruit of the poisonous tree," Nadir said as soon as the words left her mouth.

"Ah, no—I obtained that information legally, Monsieur Khan," Philippe said with a smile as he turned to the Persian. "It seems that Christine told my dear, deceased brother everything. And he was always quite the chatterbox with his older brother, God rest his soul." His tone didn't reveal his condescension, but his words were more than enough to send venom through her veins.

"Overruled," the judge droned once again, and the jurors continued writing away.

"I don't know…" she said slowly, struggling to push aside her embarrassment. "It's hard to say—I always seemed to lose track of time when I was there…" Another thing that she shouldn't have said, for she heard a woman gasp in the back of the room.

"Naturally," he agreed, nodding solemnly. "And when was the first time he raped you?"

And then the courtroom exploded in a flurry of shouts.


	19. Accomplice in Catastrophe

" **Perhaps I'm rushing in where angels fear to tread." -Peter Nichols, "A Day in the Death of Joe Egg"**

"Objection, your honor, that is an inflammatory statement!" was the first thing she heard as Nadir stood up rapidly. But the words could barely be heard over the flurry of conversation that arose between the jurors and amongst the onlookers, each person trying to speak over the other. She looked around the room in a panic, her mind reeling, but all she could see were sidelong looks of shock and pity and disgust. It wasn't until the judge began to hammer away with his gavel when her eyes finally fell on Erik.

But he wasn't looking at her. He wasn't even glaring at Philippe, who was taking in the chaos he had aroused with a triumphant smile on his face. Rather, he was looking down at his shackled hands, remorseful for an act he never committed.

"He never did anything of the sort," she finally shouted out over the gavel and the chatter of the spectators. They finally quieted down and every eye turned back to her—even Erik's eyes lifted from his hands. She met his stare momentarily, but was only met with a neutral expression that revealed nothing. With fierce determination, she shifted her gaze back to Philippe, who was observing her with pointed curiosity.

"He has  _never_  made sexual advances towards you?" Philippe challenged deftly, his eyebrows shooting up.

"No," Christine replied firmly, her jaw set in fortitude as she looked back out at the doubtful spectators.

"Even after you were married?" he continued on daringly, and she shook her head once more, though she couldn't stop the blush that rose on her cheeks.

"I…" she began, looking down at her hands to avoid the countless stares that were directed at her. "I told him that I wasn't prepared for that, and he complied," she said quietly, doing everything she could to quell her embarrassment at having to speak of such things.

"Do you consider your marriage valid, then?" he asked, his voice suddenly cut with faint condescension, almost as if he were talking to a young child.

She looked up at this point and vaguely wondered why Nadir wasn't making some objection—surely this wasn't relevant. But after several moments of silence, though, she found that she had no choice but to answer. "I do."

"This may sound asinine, Mademoiselle, but can you see how your current marriage could shed a negative light on your relationship with the Viscount?" he queried, and though his face was perfectly serious, she could see the hidden smile that resided on his lips.

"I'm not sure I understand the question," she said slowly, making a point to maintain eye contact with him.

"Who is to say that you and your husband didn't plan this murder in order to pursue your marriage?" he asked, and when she didn't answer, he obliged her by continuing on. "Clause 59 state that "the accomplices of a crime or a delict shall be punished with the same penalty as the principles in the commission of such crime or delict, except where the law may otherwise direct." She blinked once, and he took a step closer to her, his eyes flaming with malicious exhilaration. "Do you consider yourself an accomplice?"

"This is not the trial of Christine Daaé."

Philippe turned around quickly and every eye moved to Erik, who was sitting just as calmly as ever behind the defendant's table. There was no fury in his gaze, no rage coursing through his limbs, and his expression was serene as ever. Even the judge, Christine noticed, appeared quietly stunned by Erik's comment and made no objection.

Finally, Philippe turned around, his lips pursed in aggravation. "No more questions, your honor," he said sharply, though his eyes were trained with deadly precision on Christine. It wasn't until Nadir had stood up and moved around his table when Philippe finally broke his stare and sat back down in his own chair. It was difficult for her not to watch him as he leaned back in his seat victoriously, hands folded neatly in his lap, but when Nadir finally stood before her, she managed to avert her gaze.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Daaé," he said, a genuinely warm smile coming to his face that gave Christine cause for rest. She let out an involuntary sigh of relief and smiled back.

"Good afternoon."

"I would like to start with your relationship with the accused. You say you married him shortly after the incident," Nadir said calmly, to which Christine nodded.

"Yes, I did."

"And when did he bring you to Rouen—"steal you," as the Count has put it?" he continued on, preempting Philippe's objection with his addendum.

"After the marriage ceremony was performed," she said slowly, doing all she could to keep her eyes from darting towards the jury.

" _After?_  That certainly solves  _that_  problem—clause 357 states, "in case the seducer shall have  _married the girl_  whom he has stolen, he can only be prosecuted, upon the complaint of those persons who, by the Code Napoleon, have the right of requiring such a marriage to be declared void; and he can only be condemned when the marriage has been declared void." Nadir's smile widened and Christine visibly relaxed, though she could still feel her heartbeat quickening in elation.

"Objection!" Philippe called out, and her focus snapped to him, her thrill turning to alarm. "The marriage  _should_  be declared void, given it was never consummated!" She could see that he was trying to remain calm, yet he still couldn't hide his anger at being outwitted.

"Monsieur le Count, a marriage doesn't need to be consummated to be legal in France. One must only sign the contracts—which you did, Miss Daaé, am I correct?" Nadir said evenly, turning back to Christine with raised eyebrows.

"Correct," she replied rapidly, and a wave of murmurs crossed over the courtroom.

"Overruled, Monsieur de Chagny," the judge said in a clipped tone.

"Therefore, I believe the kidnapping accusation becomes wholly _irrelevant_ , given the current nature of your relationship." He paused for a moment and waited for courtroom to fall silent once again. "Now on the accusation of murder—or assassination, as your prosecution has deemed it—can you tell me a bit more about the sequence of events that night?"

"Yes," she replied, looking down at her hands momentarily as she recalled the night's proceedings. "As I said, Erik brought me down…to his home," she said with difficulty, looking back up to Nadir. "And I hadn't a clue what he was going to do. And I asked him what he would do to me, and he said he would never hurt me." At this, she brought her eyes to Erik's for a moment, but his remained, as always, impassive. "And I said that I would stay with him," she finished, looking back to Nadir.

"And how did Raoul find himself in the picture?" he asked as he cocked his head to one side slightly.

It took her a moment to recall when, precisely, he had arrived, and how. "He swam across the lake," she said finally, nodding to herself. "He was drenched in water, and he broke into the house somehow."

"He broke into the house?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows. "How do you know that?"

"Well…" she said slowly, fiddling with the fabric of her dress nervously. "Erik was always very stringent about security precautions. He would never keep a door open or unlocked thoughtlessly. The fact that Raoul found his way in without being hurt was a shock in and of itself."

"Interesting," Nadir said with a slow nod, as if considering the statement. "Because you see, the Penal Code also states that if homicide has been committed during the night in one's home, or because one's residence has been broken into, the homicide is deemed self-defense, which is  _not_ punishable by death." The words were spoken with perfect clarity, and she couldn't keep her jaw from dropping in astonishment as murmurs broke out across the courtroom. She could  _feel_ Philippe seething behind Nadir, but she kept her eyes trained on the Persian with determination as he continued. "Raoul entered at night, am I correct?"

"Yes, he did," Christine said carefully as she looked to Philippe, who looked about ready to explode.

"And he broke into Erik's home, is that also correct?" Nadir continued on, a smile lingering on his face.

"Yes, that is correct," she replied, returning the smile gently.

"Objection, your honor! That assumes facts not in evidence!" Philippe shouted, standing up in a rush as he looked desperately to the judge, who merely turned his eyes to Nadir.

"I suppose that's why we called in Miss Daaé here as a witness, hm? To provide her account of the event?" Nadir commented simply, turning to Philippe with an expectant look.

"But how can she be trusted, if—" Philippe continued heatedly, at which point Nadir held up a hand to silence him.

"I believe you've had your turn, Monsieur," he said cordially, no hint of malice in his tone.

"Overruled," the judge commanded before turning his eyes back to Christine.

"Christine, is there anything more you'd like to say to the court?" Nadir asked, his eyes focused penetratingly on her.  _Make your case,_  his eyes seemed to say to her.  _Convince them._  She took a moment to gather a breath, her heart beating out of control within the confines of her chest.

"I loved the man who was killed that night, and I couldn't express the torment I feel for his loss, even if I tried," she said gradually as she looked out at the courtroom, trying to meet as many of those intent eyes as she could. "But my husband sits before me," she continued, her gaze falling on Erik with sudden serenity. "And I love him, and I just want him to be safe."

She paused for a beat, unexpectedly aware of how ardently the courtroom was hanging on her words. "I am not trying to manipulate you or force you into believing some twisted lie. I am merely a wife, and he is merely my husband." Silence rang through the room one again, and she looked out to the sea of people. "I will never forget Raoul, but I tell you all candidly that I couldn't bear to lose Erik."

"Objection, your honor, is this really necessary?" Philippe asked in exasperation, clearly not moved by her words. Christine looked to Nadir, but he was still smiling kindly, unbothered by Philippe's outburst.

"Withdrawn," he said, his tone smooth and quietly proud, clearly aware that what was said could never be unsaid. "No more questions, your honor."

She was led off of the stand and they had a short recess. For a moment Christine thought she might actually be allowed to speak to Erik, but he was led out before she had a chance. No one dared to say a word as she sat down amongst the chairs facing the judge, and people neglected to sit near her when they all came back to watch the remainder of the trial. She didn't seem to notice, though, and only waited for Erik to be led back in to face the next witnesses.

Several men were called from the medical examiner's office, all testifying to the nature of the wound, verifying that it was not self-inflicted. Previous patrons of the Palais Garnier were called to confirm Erik's haunting, and ballerinas were called to tell of how often Christine had disappeared. She sat in silence, wondering what the point of all of this was, and how this all related to the matter of a murder. But when a Philippe's proud voice called Madame Giry to the stand, it all seemed to make sense. The trial had come down to whether or not the wound was inflicted due to self defense, and Philippe was doing all he could to mold the image of a depraved killer who had shot to kill in a jealous rage.

This whole elaborate charade had come down to a simple test of character.

Madame Giry looked just the same as she always had, though she didn't look once to Christine as she walked with stately grace down the aisle and up to the witness stand. It was clear that she had no desire to be in this room, but Christine knew all too well that she hadn't a choice in the matter. But somewhere behind her unchanged looks, there was a certain fatigue in her movements and weariness in her eyes that hadn't been there when they had last spoken. But then, their last meeting before  _Don Juan_  seemed lifetimes ago.

"Please state your name," Philippe said once she had spoken her oath, and Christine's focus snapped back to the woman who sat before her.

"Antoinette Giry," she said in the clipped tone that was so characteristic of her.

"And can you tell us your role at the Palais Garnier?" he continued on, looking down at the ground, lying in wait.

"I was in charge of the corps de ballet," she obliged, her lips pursed. "And I managed the patron's boxes during my time off."

"Were you employed by anyone other than the managers of the Palais Garnier?" he asked curtly, his eyes drifting up to hers expectantly.

Although her sharp and stony features revealed nothing, she paused in hesitation before she responded. "I was employed by Erik."

"In what capacity?" he asked in that overly pleasant tone that made Christine's hair stand on end. Still, she watched as Madame Giry's eyes shifted towards Erik's figure for a moment before falling back on Philippe.

"I delivered his letters," she stated finally, her lips still set in a thin line of discontent.

"That's all?" Philippe took a step forward, cocking his head to the side.

"That's all," she replied, her eyes narrowing in annoyance.

"Very well," he muttered, and Christine glanced over at Nadir who seemed pleased with her response. If Philippe had wanted her to admit to being a conspirator of some sort, she certainly wasn't going to oblige him with such information. "When did you leave the Palais Garnier?"

"I left on the night of  _Don Juan_ ," she told him.

"Before or after the Viscount was murdered?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I couldn't possibly know at what point, in relation to my departure, he had died," she snapped, to which Philippe clearly looked taken aback.

"Fair enough," he said, clearing his throat in hopes regaining his footing. "Could you tell us why you left that night?"

"I was concerned," were her blunt words, and the Count squared his shoulders as he looked at her, his confidence mounting.

"You were concerned about your safety?" he clarified, but she merely cocked an eyebrow, nearly smirking at the question.

"No," she said after a moment, looking down at her hands in subtle amusement.

Philippe stopped, his jaw slackening in confusion. "I believe you told me in our interview that you were concerned for your safety," he stuttered in a rushed voice.

"It was not  _my_  safety I was concerned about," she said easily, her focus shifting back to Philippe, who relaxed once again.

"You were concerned for Christine's?" he asked assertively, but she shook her head once again.

"No, of course not. She was safer with Erik than she ever was at the Palais Garnier." It was at this moment when she finally made eye contact with Christine, even smiling a bit before she looked back to Philippe.

"Who were you concerned for? Your daughter?" Philippe's uncertainty was clear, as was that of the spectators.

"I was concerned for Erik," she told him, her eyes softening.

"Pardon?" Philippe stammered, turning back to his table as he began to shuffle through papers hurriedly. "I really believe I have in the transcript of your interview that you stated—" he said frantically, but she stopped him.

"I was concerned that some cruel and vindictive fool like youwould come along and try to make him into something that he is not," she said in a clear and effortless tone, her eyes locked with shameless honesty on Philippe as he turned back to her, his mouth gaping. "I was concerned that a monster like  _you_  would try to convince the world that the genius who sits before us is a disgraceful human being. But he is not," she said, her eyes turning to Erik's smoothly, sparkling with esteem. "He is an old soul who has only ever wanted someone to acknowledge and value his existence."

Philippe swallowed, his eyes darting between the judge and the jury, who were staring with open mouths and wide eyes at Madame Giry. "O-Objection to the witness' response," the Count faltered, unable to hide his failure. "The witness continued to speak on matters irrelevant to the question."

She merely smiled at this, and before the judge could respond, she looked over to the jury warmly and murmured, "Forget I said it." But there was no forgetting the words that had left her mouth. Philippe didn't find it necessary to ask any more questions after that, and walked sheepishly back to his seat. He buried his eyes in the papers on his desk, hoping to escape the humiliation that had just occurred. Perhaps he was hopeful that Nadir would give him a few moments to recover as he asked Madame Giry his own questions, but he merely smiled at the woman appreciatively before he told the judge that he had no questions for her.

And so, as she was led off the witness stand, Philippe was forced to stand up once again and call his next witness. He took a moment to stack his papers neatly once again before he approached the stand stiffly, his eyes locked on the judge.

"I would like to call Erik to the stand."


	20. How This Will End

" **I love her and that's the beginning and end of everything." -F.S. Fitzgerald**

There were no whispers to be heard. The crowd did not look about, and they did not mutter to one another. They simply stared ahead, their mutual gazes fixed on the masked man who stood up serenely and approached the stand. He was sworn in like the others, though his discerning stare at the Bible did not go unnoticed by many. Nevertheless, he put his hand over it and repeated the required words before he sat down easily.

"Please state your name," Philippe said, his tone clipped and unforgiving. The tension in the room had increased ten-fold in a matter of moments, and Christine could feel each of the spectators sitting on edge as they studied the scene before them.

"Erik," he replied, utterly unfazed by the Count's thinly veiled aggression.

"Your full name?" Philippe pressed, narrowing his eyes on the defendant.

"Erik," he repeated, merely blinking at the prosecutor blankly. Philippe lingered momentarily, hoping that he would elaborate, but he made no move to explain. Rather, he folded his hands in wait until Philippe spoke once more with exasperation.

"A husband and wife without a surname—what kind of marriage is that?" He did not try to hide the bite in his words or the malice in his face, causing several viewers to shift uncomfortably.

"I don't believe marriage is a thing to be mocked," Erik replied a bit quieter, yet with perfect composure. The spectators looked amongst one another, a few glancing at Christine in hopes of catching a reaction, but she wasn't watching them. Her eyes were glued on Erik, unmovable and silently bold.

"Of course," Philippe muttered reluctantly, barely taking a moment before he continued on. "Now, why did you marry Christine?" he redirected, and Christine felt sudden discomfort. There was something so jarring about being spoken of as if she was not in the room, but she pushed the uneasiness aside.

"Because I love her," Erik told him, his eyes never leaving Philippe's. Christine could hear the subtle whispers amongst the crowd as more eyes turned towards her, and her heart quickened perceptibly.

"Not because you knew of this loophole in the law," Philippe asked doubtfully, crossing his arms.

"I knew nothing of that until today," Erik reasoned, almost smiling at the mere coincidence of it all. Whether that was the truth or not, she could not say, but she very much doubted that he had reasoned so far into the future when he took her away.

"Did you force yourself upon her?" Philippe asked sharply, and the courtroom fell silent once again, all eyes focused on the masked man on the witness stand.

"I believe Christine answered that question," he murmured, and Christine did not fail to see the spark of fleeting pain that ran across his eyes.

"I am asking you," Philippe responded, cocking his head in interest.

There was a moment's pause, though Erik's eyes did not waver once. "No, I did not," he said finally, the faintest bit of resentment towards the Count hiding in his words.

"And yet you forced her to marry you," Philippe replied, something akin to confusion appearing on his face, as if he truly did not understand. "I'm afraid I cannot see the point."

"I suppose it would be hard for someone like you," Erik replied, his lips curling into a slight smile that made Philippe stiffen. "You, who has not been in love," he amended just as Philippe opened his mouth to make a rebuttal. It seemed for a moment that he was at a loss for words, but he eventually went on to his next question as he straightened out his prideful shoulders.

"Can you describe the events of that night?"

"My opera was premiering, and due to circumstances that I became aware of, I planned to take Christine away." Erik spoke with clarity, but there was a hint of animosity in having to say the words.

" _Circumstances that you became aware of_?" Philippe repeated, his eyebrows shooting up as he turned out to the spectators briefly. "Can you please explain that cryptic bit to us?"

Erik paused as his eyes narrowed faintly on Philippe. Still, his face showed no signs of his potent temper, and he responded calmly. "It is no secret that the Viscount and Christine were engaged. I hoped to convince her to keep her previous promises." Christine stiffened ever-so-slightly, for she knew that their "engagement" was not common knowledge.

"Previous promises?" Philippe questioned, a hint of true interest finally lacing his tone.

"She was bound to me," Erik said, his eyes purposefully locked with Philippe. Christine stared at him hard, willing him to glance at her, if even for a moment. He would not, though, and continued on passively. "Perhaps you never noticed that while she wore the Viscount's ring around her neck, she wore my ring on her finger." Christine's eyes flickered to Nadir, whose mouth hung slightly agape, clearly ignorant of this fact until this very moment.

Philippe seemed equally stunned by this, but tried to conceal his shock as he continued. "And so your plan was to steal her away to remedy the situation?" he asked after a beat, crossing his arms in disbelief.

Erik's mouth twitched at this. "I believe we established that I cannot be accused of  _stealing_  her anymore. But yes, if that's how you'd like to put it, then fine." That hint of ill will was returning to his tone, though Christine was unreservedly amazed at his capacity for self-control—a trait he had never been known for in the past.

"And my brother happened to get in the way?" Philippe pressed, a bit of melodrama bleeding into his manner.

"Unfortunately," Erik replied, swallowing down his hatred.

"Unfortunately?" Philippe asked, his jaw clenching in resentment. "You wish to convince us that you regret that he is out of your way?" he spat, shaking his head almost imperceptibly at the thought.

"I do not regret that he is  _out of my way_ , yet I do regret that he is dead by my hand," Erik bit back. Christine saw his hands ball up into fists, and she felt her heartbeat quicken under the duress as she tried to block out the mounting tension radiating throughout the room.

"So you admit that it was, indeed, by your hand?" Philippe asked, quietly triumphant by the admission. Erik seemed utterly untroubled by the statement, though, and continued on without pause.

"I don't believe there is any use in hiding such a fact. Nor does it seem useful for me to deny the fact that I am remorseful," he replied peacefully, his hands relaxing in his lap.

"Remorseful towards the death of your rival, whom you had never even met?" Philippe challenged, and Christine could nearly hear the smirk in his tone.

"Oh, I had met him," Erik replied, a smile of his own coming to his lips.

"Excuse me?" Philippe faltered, and Christine felt herself lean forward.  _Had_  they ever met each other? Of course, they had unknowingly been in the same room—on the night of the Masquerade, for instance—but had they ever interacted alone?

"We have encountered one another before," Erik repeated simply, and Christine felt her eyebrows furrow in confusion. Surely he wasn't blatantly lying under oath…

"Under what circumstances?" Philippe demanded, crossing his arms once more belligerently.

"He shot at me." Christine's face broke out in outright puzzlement, and she looked immediately to Nadir, but he looked equally confused. He had never told her that such an event had transpired, and yet Erik looked so sure of himself.

"With  _what_?" Philippe exclaimed, ignoring the irresolute glances that the jurors exchanged.

"A pistol, of course," Erik told him, his eyes drifting in thought momentarily. "He missed, but I have no doubt that he aimed to kill."

"Objection, your honor—this is an inflammatory statement!" Philippe cried out in a frenzy, and Erik raised an eyebrow quickly.

"I do not mean to cause prejudice against the deceased, your honor," Erik defended, his eyes turning up to the judge who remained mute, perhaps too overwhelmed to interrupt. "Merely stating the truth, which I have sworn to do."

"On a book that you do not believe in!" the Count accused, looking to the silent judge once more in hopes of receiving some aide.

"Do not presume to know what I believe in," Erik said sharply, his tone suddenly icy and grave.

"Do you mean to sully the name of God by claiming you are a Christian?" Philippe demanded, and Christine's eyes flew between the judge and Nadir, waiting for one of them to redirect the questioning. No one said a word, though, and merely remained wide-eyed and gaping.

"I could ask you the same thing," the defendant pointed out coldly.

"This is not about  _me_ ," Philippe shouted, having apparently forgotten how many people were watching his every move and hanging on each word desperately.

"Isn't it?" Erik asked quietly, his face expressing subtle sympathy while his eyes burned with a quiet antipathy.

"This is about the shameful act that you committed without the blink of an eye!" the prosecutor shot back, pointing his finger accusingly at Erik.

He remained unshaken, though, as he spoke in a soft and painfully lucid voice. "I think that's where you're wrong."

"Oh, do you?" Philippe asked, his words filled to the brim with condescension. Yes, it was clear that he was no longer willing to play nice, no longer patient enough to put on courtesies for the court. This was war, and they were fighting one another hand to hand. "Please enlighten me."

"I believe this is about your avarice and your conceit. I think that you find great pleasure in each and every moment that I remain in custody, but you should not find pleasure in such things." The court remained in silent awe as he spoke, and she felt their attention linger on him for a moment before their gazes moved in sync to Philippe, who was fuming.

"And why is that?" he cried, his rage giving way to unrepressed frustration and anguish.

"Because if you had a shred of decency, you would be too busy mourning your brother to worry about crushing the happiness of two people who are no trouble to the world." Christine knew the rebuttal Philippe would find before the words left his mouth, and yet they still brought shivers down her spine when she heard them.

"Because you killed him in  _cold blood_!" he shouted, his body shaking with emotion.

"And I am sorry!" Erik yelled all at once, his voice echoing throughout the room vibrantly. Each spectator, Nadir, even the judge remained perfectly still as they watched Erik, anxious and expectant. "If I could bring him back today, I would. Even if it means that I could not be with Christine."

His eyes finally drifted to her, their gazes locking for the first time as he bore on. "And that would tear me apart. But I believe it would be easier, for I would not have to bear knowing that I caused her pain." Her breath left her, and she felt several eyes turn to her. She refused to take notice of them, though, even as tears threatened to escape her eyes. Finally, Erik's eyes broke from hers as he turned to look at the jury members sadly.

"I wish I knew how to express my thoughts to you all, but I have never been one to understand human communications. I am painfully limited in my abilities to articulate such delicate things. And so, I will only say this," Erik said, his eyes shifting between each of the jurors slowly before he looked out to the courtroom.

"To those without pity, I will not blame you if you indict me. I am terribly accustomed to receiving no compassion. And in truth, I have done reprehensible things over the course of my miserable life. It was bound to catch up to me one day." Christine's focus drifted momentarily as she observed those around her, their faces all afflicted with lines of concern.

"But if you discover a shred of sympathy within you—" Erik began, but Philippe cut him off abruptly.

"No," he spat piercingly, approaching the witness bench slowly. "You will not deceive these people!"

Erik's eyes slowly trailed to him, a sad smile forming on his lips. "You are a strange, unhappy man, Philippe de Chagny."

His jaw hung slack at this, and he shook his head rapidly. "I am perfectly happy!"

"You see, I understand—I was once the same, after all," he replied, his words carefully packed with coherent understanding.

"We are nothing like one another," Philippe muttered as he reached the stand, his hands resting on the rail. They remained there for several moments, staring at one another, reading each other's expressions, daring the other to speak. "Take off your mask," he finally muttered, and Christine felt instant terror course through her veins. She looked to Nadir desperately, but he had already stood up.

"Objection, your honor—immaterial," Nadir called out calmly, though she could hear the hidden dread in his tone. She looked back to Erik, who hadn't moved an inch.

"I hope you find peace," Erik said finally as he stared unblinkingly at the prosecutor. It took several moments for Philippe to finally back away from the witness stand, cold-hearted spite written in his features.

"No more questions, your honor," he said as he moved back to his desk and sat down stiffly.

She watched as the judge looked expectantly at Nadir, yet the Persian shook his head subtly. Clearing his throat, the judge then turned to the jury, nodding to them. "You will deliberate, and we will reconvene when you've come to a decision."

Erik was taken out first, but this time she saw his gaze flash towards her as he was being led away. He was so very serene as he walked out, accepting of what was to come. His anger, which had become so engrained in his soul for so long, had dissipated. And yet, what  _was_  to come? It seemed that Erik knew his fate, but Christine couldn't find a way to quell her uncertainty. Before she could say a word, though, he had passed by and exited the courtroom.

It was Madame Giry who approached her as the spectators were released, and without a word they left the courthouse and found their way to a bench just outside the courthouse. They didn't need to speak, even as the minutes ticked away, turning languidly into hours. Instead, they merely listened to the sound of the wind as it drifted through the bare trees, ignorant of the stares of those who had watched the trial.

Dusk was fallen on Rouen by the time they were called back into the courtroom to hear the jury's decision. She hadn't noticed how weak her body was from lack of food, but she pushed away the pangs of hunger as she sat back down at the front of the courtroom. Erik was led back in, and he and Nadir sat down at the defendant's table stoically. Philippe made his way back as well, sauntering to his own table with false and preemptive victory.

And then the jury filed in, one by one, and the judge watched attentively as one of them stood up. "Has the jury reached its verdict?" he asked, all eyes turning to the lone juror in uninhibited suspense.

"We have, your honor." Christine felt herself holding her breath as they spoke, her mouth dry and her heart racing in anticipation. "We, the jury, find the defendant guilty."


	21. Prelude to Spring

" **I was talking about…what: coming to the end of it; yes. So. There it is. You asked, after all. That's the happiest moment. When it's all done. When we stop. When we can stop." -Edward Albee, "Three Tall Women"**

"We, the jury, find the defendant guilty," he said in a clear tone, and Christine felt her heart stop dead in her chest. All breath had left her and her body began to tremble as the consequences of these words began to hit her. Still, she had to force herself to listen as the juror began to speak, pushing aside the murmurs of the spectators that enveloped her.

"Guilty of murdering the Viscount de Chagny in self defense," he continued on, but the words were of little comfort. "And on the charges regarding the kidnapping of Christine Daaé, we find the defendant not guilty." At this, she tried to look at Erik, but his face was turned full away from her. As usual, his body revealed nothing.

The court fell under a spell of stillness as the juror sat down, all waiting to hear the official sentence. "I sentence the defendant to lifetime imprisonment, as befits his crime," the judge said evenly, and Christine's mouth went dry. For the first time, she looked to Philippe, who had lost a bit of his steam. He looked quietly pleased, nevertheless, for a lessened victory was still better than a defeat. He seemed to feel her gaze, for his eyes flickered towards hers chillingly, a vindictive smile playing on his lips. Without a second thought, she forced herself to look away, unwilling to betray her misery.

She forgot about Chagny the moment Erik stood up, though. He had spent the entire trial avoiding her glances and looking purposefully away from her, but his eyes were undeniably on her now. He didn't appear frightened or even upset, but there was something significant in his stare. It wasn't a reassuring expression, or even a plead for forgiveness, and for several moments she could not pinpoint what he was trying to tell her. But then, for a fleeting second at most, his eyes seemed to say that this was not the end. They told her to wait for him, and that there was hope to be had. But the expression had disappeared quicker than it had emerged, and she was left wondering whether her eyes had merely played tricks on her.

And then he was gone—out the door in handcuffs— and Nadir was approaching her with a despondent look on his face.

"I'm so sorry, Christine," he told her as people began to stand and make their way out. The room was a flutter of murmurs, each person more shocked than the next at hearing the outcome, but she focused intentionally on Nadir. "I thought for sure—…"

"You mustn't worry," Christine said, and she found herself shocked at the calmness of her voice. Her heart was beating out of her chest, after all, and her mind was racing with doubts. And yet her words made his face relax slightly, and she mustered a small smile.

"You're right," he said slowly. "It is fortunate that he is not being put to death. And we can try to overturn the decision as soon as—…" he continued on quickly, but she held up a hand.

"No," she said with a slow shake of her head. "Everything will be fine." And before she knew what she was doing, her feet were leading her out of the courtroom and out into the night. She felt Nadir follow after a moment, and she led him outside where a crowd had gathered to watch the prisoner's carriage roll away. She could see Erik's shadow within the carriage, and she felt her heart drop as uncertainties ate away at her once again. But when his golden eyes turned and created pinpricks of light within the carriage, it all seemed to make sense.

_This is not the end. Wait for me. There is hope to be had._

* * *

"What do you mean, he escaped?" I ignored Philippe's words and looked pensively at Prideux, truly bewildered by the entire situation. Surely this wasn't Erik's master plan, for if he had "escaped," Philippe would simply hunt him down once again and indict him for running from the law.

"Apparently the guard didn't notice his absence until they reached the jail," Prideux began, but Philippe scoffed loudly.

"You're telling me the guard who was  _in the carriage with him_  didn't notice his absence?" he demanded, his eyes flashing with a relentless rage.

"Monsieur de Chagny, if you would shut your mouth and listen for a moment, you would realize that this is not as bad as you think it is," Prideux snapped in aggravation, and Philippe laughed condescendingly.

"How could this possibly—" he began, but Prideux spoke over him before he could get far.

"He was found, dead." My breath stopped at this, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Philippe gaping at Prideux in shock. "We sent the dogs after him, and he went into the river in order to get them off his scent. He must have drowned, because we found his body washed up on the riverbank this morning." At this point, Prideux looked at me and I attempted to regain my composure. "I would like you to come and identify the body."

"I am coming as well," Philippe demanded, and we both looked at him suddenly.

"Very well," Prideux spoke quietly, and he led us down to the coroner's office. I didn't notice how my body was shaking until I was forced to trek down the stairs, where I had to grab the railing in order to steady myself. Erik had survived every trial that life had thrown at him, both physical and mental, and yet he was defeated by a  _river_? The thought made me sick, for I had always imagined a more noble death for someone like him.

I almost couldn't look when Prideux pulled back the sheet that shrouded the corpse, but I could feel his eyes on me. And so despite my state, I looked down boldly and took in the man on the table before me. But when I saw him, I couldn't hide the brief confusion on my face, and my head snapped up to Prideux. His eyes were boring into mine, and I could see Philippe looking rapidly between us.

"Is this Erik?" Prideux asked evenly, and I looked back down again, my lips pressed together tightly.

"It is," I replied, willing my voice to reveal nothing.

"How do you know for sure?" Philippe demanded, and Prideux turned to him, curiosity of his own written in his features. "He's so bloated with the water—you can barely tell it's a human!"

It was true. Each limb had blown up like a balloon, yet there was no mistaking his marred face. But while Philippe might never notice, I certainly saw that the injury that afflicted this man's face was far too new. Perhaps he had been burned within the last few hours, maybe a day ago, but it appeared far from weathered.

"I would never mistake Erik," I told Philippe firmly, but he looked utterly unconvinced.

"You think I'd trust someone like you? I demand that we send out a search party!" he yelled out to Prideux pointedly.

"Monsieur de Chagny," he replied coldly, his eyes narrowing on the Count with malice. "I will not waste one more minute of my time on this case. I have his body before you, and if you do not believe it, then I can do nothing more for you." Philippe opened his mouth once more, but Prideux wouldn't allow him to speak. "And if I find out that you have attempted to act independently without the prior sanction of the Préfecture de Police, I will indict you for obstructing justice." He paused at this, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. "Not to mention that you will personally piss me the hell off."

Philippe didn't respond at first, but after several moments, he turned and marched back up the stairs in a huff. When we heard the door slam at the top of the stairs, Prideux slowly pulled the sheet back over the body without a word. He raised his eyes to mine, and we stared at each other for a few moments; I wanted to thank him, or at least acknowledge his deed, but before I could, he nodded solemnly and followed Philippe up the stairs. Yes, there didn't seem to be a need to state the obvious fact that resounded between us.

For we both knew that the man underneath the sheet was not Erik.

* * *

I did not go to the house immediately, knowing that Philippe was almost certainly watching my every move. I didn't think the Count would take action, truly, for I believe he knew that there was no hope of winning. After all, each of his prior resources had disappeared, and now Erik could, quite literally, be anywhere in the world. Yes, even he seemed to see the futility in going after someone who could so easily disappear into thin air.

After a month or so had passed and Philippe had made no move to find Erik, I found myself a carriage and made the trek back to Boscherville. The trip seemed so very familiar, and as the carriage rolled to a stop at the top of the gravel driveway, it seemed too easy to imagine the two of them within the house. Perhaps they were making music together or enjoying a quiet lunch, or perhaps they were strolling outside. But when I came up to the door, such thoughts flew my mind.

There, gripped between the frame and the door, sat a folded note. I felt myself smile instinctively before I had even touched it, for it was so very like him to leave me one of his notes. Still, I couldn't control my shaking hand as I reached for it and tugged it from the door's grasp. And there was his messy scrawl, so extraordinarily familiar to my eyes, and all at once, relief spread through my veins.

_My friend,_

_I hope that you are free of your reasonable doubt. I assure you that we'll find you on some future day, and we can share tea once again. My Russian will be waiting for you, as always._

_-O.G._

_P.S. Please thank Prideux for me. His cleverness may even surpass my own._

My lips spread into a smile, and I even let out a small chuckle as I finished reading. With that, I stowed the note in my pocket and made my way back into the carriage in order to make the journey back to Paris. I dropped the windows, letting the breeze hit my face as the carriage ambled down the drive, the house disappearing slowly from view. The air was still crisp, yet the sun was shining brightly through the towering trees, melting the last remnants of snow that had accumulated over the past few nights.

Spring was coming at last.

 


End file.
